404: Doom Not Found

- 10 years before canon -

Lizzie's Bar still stank of bleach and blood.

The smell clung to the vinyl booths, soaked into the seams of the floorboards. The lighting was dimmer now—not moody, just tired. Behind the bar, the chrome-glass racks of liquor gleamed, untouched. No one drank anymore, not really. They watched the doors.

Lizzie stood alone in the back room, tablet in hand, legs tense. Her sandaled foot tapped the metal floor, heel echoing sharp.

A knock.

Then the door opened.

The first to enter was a wiry man with a long coat draped open, heavy cybernetic arms exposed. One blink of his optics scanned the room.

"Ms. Borden," he said. "Call me Lux. You said urgent?"

"Depends how good you are," Lizzie said, motioning him in.

Behind him came the others. A heavy-set woman with a modified Militech frame—an ex-corp bruiser. A quiet nomad type, lean and ghost-eyed. And the last, a man with a synthetic jaw and that weary sharpness that said he'd been a beat cop once, long ago.

Lizzie put the tablet down. "This isn't just a gig. It's protection detail."

"For who?" the corp woman asked. "The building? A client?"

"For all of them," Lizzie said simply, gesturing to the floor. "This whole place."

Lux raised an eyebrow. "Big ask."

"Big threat." Lizzie didn't blink. "Tyger Claws. Three of them died here three nights ago. You've seen the feeds."

"Was hard to miss," said the ex-cop. "You hacked 'em up with an axe. In public."

"Didn't hear anyone crying over them," Lizzie replied. "They raped and killed one of my girls. This bar's a line now. I made that clear."

The nomad woman, silent until now, leaned forward. "How soon you expect retaliation?"

Lizzie exhaled. "Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But it's coming."

The ex-cop cracked his knuckles. "You want deterrence, or closure?"

"Survival," she answered. "I don't need heroes. I need a wall."

Lux paced slowly. "You have cameras?"

"Half. And I've got a techie who rewired the lighting, but he's gone. Smart guy. Said I'd need muscle. So here you are."

"Four solos for one club," the Militech woman muttered. "You know how expensive that is?"

Lizzie tapped the tablet. "Thirty thousand for five days. You split it."

"That's generous," Lux said, eyes narrowing. "Too generous."

"Because I'm not just paying for bodies. I'm paying for message control. If the Claws get in here again and I wind up a smear on the floor, that's the end of the Mox. But if they lose—publicly—word spreads."

"So we're bait," the nomad said flatly.

"No," Lizzie said. "You're a statement."

The silence that followed was sharp.

Finally, Lux grinned, wolfish. "Alright. We'll make sure no one forgets what happened here."

Lizzie nodded. "Get set. Doors open at seven. Keep them closed."

They dispersed. Quiet, professional.

Each one checking exits, scanning rooftops, syncing optics to the feed Lizzie provided. She watched them go with a quiet dread in her stomach. These weren't saints. They were ghosts with guns. But she'd hired ghosts because Night City didn't listen to prayers.

She went behind the bar, poured herself a glass of water. Her hands shook faintly.

One of the girls—young, cheeks still bruised—peered in from the hallway.

"Are they gonna come back?" she asked.

Lizzie didn't lie.

"Yeah," she said. "But this time, we're ready."

She didn't say it would be enough.

They arrived just before midnight. No subtlety, no effort to hide the gleam of imported chrome under streetlights. Three bikes first, then a black van with tinted windows and a roaring engine—Tyger Claws liked their drama.

Inside the bar, the bass cut out.

Civilians were pushed out, with the rest warned. 

Lizzie killed the music herself.

The four solos were already in position. Lux stood just behind the entrance, shotgun angled low. The ex-cop, Rogan, crouched near the bar's side entrance, watching the alley with a pistol that looked older than the city itself.

The Militech bruiser, Hardy, had posted up by the stairwell with a reinforced riot shield in front of her. And the nomad—Cass—was out of sight, sniping position up high in a nearby building, linked in through the comms.

Lizzie stood alone behind the bar. A fire axe hung on the wall beside her. Not for show. Not anymore.

She pressed her thumb against the panic sensor beneath the counter. The doors locked with a magnetic hum.

"Visuals confirm," Cass said through comms. Her voice was flat, quiet. "Ten. Seven walking. Three stayed back. One heavy hitter, cyberarm and optics. They're not here to talk."

"Copy," Rogan replied. "Let's see if we can talk them out of breathing."

Lizzie inhaled slowly and let it out through her teeth. Her legs wanted to shake. Instead, she tightened the straps on her gloves and said nothing.

The bar's front door shook once, hard.

Then a voice, muffled by the reinforced glass: "Open up, Borden."

Another slam.

"I said open the fuck up!"

Lux didn't flinch. "You want me to say it, or do we skip to the fireworks?"

"Skip it," Hardy muttered.

The third hit cracked the doorframe. Fourth shattered the lock.

Then came the breach.

The Tyger Claws surged in fast—three at the front, guns drawn, shouting. Lux stepped out from cover and fired once. Shotgun blast caught the lead in the chest, armour crumpling in a bloom of sparks and red. Second Tyger raised a pistol—Rogan shot him through the eye.

Hardy moved next, charging forward with the riot shield raised. The third Tyger Claw shot at her, missed wide—she slammed into him and drove him into the wall with a grunt. He didn't get up.

"Front secure," Lux said over comms. "We've got more moving from the back."

Cass's voice crackled. "Two entering side alley. I've got overwatch."

One shot. Then another. Lizzie couldn't see them, but she heard the whine of Cass's rail rifle discharging. Measured. Clinical. No celebration.

Hardy ducked back just in time as three more Claws stormed in, these better armed, cyberware humming.

One of them had mantis blades.

"Watch the bar!" Rogan shouted.

The mantis-bladed one launched forward. Rogan ducked under a swipe, returning fire, but his rounds barely slowed it down. It pinned him to the bar's front panel. Metal tore fabric, then flesh.

Hardy tackled it mid-strike, shoulder driving into the Claw's midsection. They tumbled. Blood sprayed from her side—she was hit. Lizzie reached for the axe, but Lux was faster. Another blast from his shotgun hit the mantis Claw in the back, enough to break their stance. Rogan rolled away, clutching his side.

"Status!" Cass barked.

"Injuries on both," Lux grunted. "Still up. Two remaining, one outside with tech gear. Jammer, I think."

"Give me a sec," Cass said.

Outside, one of the Tyger Claws stood near a portable signal disruptor, tapping commands into a datapad. He didn't see the red dot on his chest.

Cass fired.

The jammer's chest exploded. So did the disruptor.

Inside, the lights flared. Systems restored.

"You're welcome," Cass said.

But the last Claw made it through.

He charged the bar, some kind of cyber-spurred berserker. Hardy tried to intercept, but he slipped past her with a boosted slide. Lizzie barely raised the axe in time. He slapped it aside, drew a blade—

—and then dropped.

Hardy, behind him, had driven a baton through his spinal port.

He twitched, then stopped moving.

It was over.

Rogan leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. His blood painted a trail down the bar's side. Hardy sat down slowly, pressing a bandage to her hip. Lux was already reloading. Cass reported from above: "All targets down. Rooftops clear."

Lizzie exhaled.

No cheers. No laughter. Just the silence of violence done.

"They'll come again," she said.

Lux looked up, wiping blood from his jacket. "Yeah. But not tonight."

The dead Tyger Claws lay stacked outside the bar like broken totems, their chrome already cooling. Lizzie watched from the entrance, arms crossed, face unreadable under the flickering glow of her own neon signage.

Blood had soaked into the concrete, mixing with motor oil and street grime. A warning, not just to the gangers—but to anyone watching.

Inside, the bar was quiet.

Hardy leaned against the wall near the stairs, half-conscious. Her bandages were crude but held. Rogan sat slumped in a booth, face pale, half of his shirt soaked through. Lux moved silently among them, checking pulses, setting broken fingers, pouring out a shot of cheap whiskey and letting it sit untouched beside the wounded like an offering.

Cass came down from the rooftops ten minutes later. Her rifle slung low, boots dragging. She paused at the entrance, looked at the bodies, and didn't say a word.

Lizzie turned to her. "Anyone saw you?"

Cass shook her head. "No drones. No cams. Clean op."

"You sure?"

She looked Lizzie in the eye. "If I say I'm sure, I'm sure."

That was enough.

Lizzie walked back inside, brushing past the bar where the blood hadn't yet dried. She grabbed a mop, handed it to one of the girls still lingering in the back—her hands trembling, eyes wide, makeup ruined by tears.

"It's over," Lizzie told her.

The girl didn't answer, just took the mop and started to scrub.

Rogan coughed. "You're gonna need a medtech soon."

Lizzie looked at him. "I'll call one."

"You gonna be able to afford all this?" Hardy muttered.

"No," Lizzie said. Then added, "But I'll manage."

She always had.

She walked the floor now like a different kind of queen—blood on her boots, murder on her conscience. She hadn't fought this time. Hadn't needed to. But her people had. And three of them were dying under her roof. That meant something. Had to.

Lux was already on comms. She didn't ask who. Probably a fixer, someone who could keep this quiet.

The city wouldn't.

Word would spread.

Tyger Claws were dead. Shot, stabbed, axed. Killed by a woman who ran a braindance club.

Some would cheer.

Others would take offense.

But Lizzie knew now there wasn't any turning back. She could've hidden. Could've let the girl die that night, let the rage settle like bad liquor in her gut. Could've paid the bribe, given the gangers a cut, played along.

Instead, she made a choice.

This place—her place—would stand for something.

Cass leaned against the far wall, arms folded, watching her. "You know this was the first hit, right?"

"Yeah."

"They'll escalate."

"I know."

"You got a plan?"

Lizzie turned slowly, eyes sweeping the damaged bar. The blood. The broken glass. The silence.

"No," she said. "But I've got time."

She walked to the bar's old terminal, flicked on the mainline. A flicker, then a screen.

The Mox logo hadn't been designed yet. Not officially. But Lizzie stared at the blank screen like she could already see it there. A symbol that meant protection. Vengeance. Defiance. A place where the broken could belong.

Victor had warned her, in his own cold way.

He was right.

But she wasn't dead.

Not yet.

She reached for the shot of whiskey Lux had left untouched and threw it back in one sharp motion. Then she tossed the glass aside. It shattered.

Behind her, the wounded groaned, breathed, lived.

Outside, the blood on the pavement was already starting to dry.

She didn't smile.

But for the first time in a long time, she believed.