404: Doom Not Found

- 10 years before canon -

V sat restlessly in her shared apartment.

The faint sound of an electric hum vibrated throughout.

Yet, the tranquillity of it all felt foreign. 

The silence proceeding from the lack of action was painful.

It was the kind of silence that filled up cheap apartments in the hours between gigs—too early for sleep, too late for breakfast. The kind of quiet that made you start counting the cracks in the ceiling and wondering if your last job was gonna be your peak.

Victor was hunched over his desk in the living room, goggles strapped to his face, soldering something arcane. Wires and glowing shards sat in delicate trays around him, half-gutted processors fanned out like an autopsy table. He hadn't said a word in hours.

"You know," V said from the kitchen, lazily drying a bowl, "you're the worst roommate."

Victor didn't look up. "You're welcome."

"For what?" She tossed the towel aside.

"For the roof, the filtered water, filtered air, the reinforced door you didn't know I installed last week." His tone was dry. "And the silence you hate."

"Yeah, well, the dishes don't scrub themselves."

"They would. If you'd let me finish the self-cleaning retrofit." A spark hissed. Something metallic whined. "But apparently the sanctity of your ceramic mug collection comes before technological advancement."

She rolled her eyes. "You try washing a coffee ring out of steel plating."

The banter died down. A few more seconds of quiet passed before her holo buzzed. Unknown number. She answered anyway.

Padre's voice cut through, smooth and slow. "Buenas tardes, niña. You're V, sí?"

V straightened up a little. "That depends on who's asking."

"Don't play coy. He vetted you. Doctor Doom doesn't vouch for many."

Her mouth went dry at the name. Victor didn't react, though she was certain he'd heard. Of course, he had. His ears were like the rest of him—too sharp to belong in this decade.

Padre continued. "Got a job. Simple run. One pickup, no hostiles expected. Quick eddies."

"What's the catch?"

"The catch is the same as it ever is. It's Night City. People lie, things go south, and quick turns to never."

"Victor recommend me for this?"

"He said you were capable. But I smell reckless. I believe he sees something in you. Perhaps tempering you would showcase it. I'd say that's about right."

V looked over. Victor hadn't moved. Still working on his mystery project, still acting like he wasn't paying attention. 

Padre sent the location ping before she could say yes. She checked the map—just outside of Santo Domingo. Not exactly close, but not a death sentence either.

"Got wheels?" he asked.

"Sorta," she said. "Sorta means no," Padre chuckled.

Victor sighed, finally removing his goggles. "You may take my vessel. Calibration has yet to be finalised, but perhaps your fine-tuning may aid."

"You sure?" she asked, surprised.

"No," he replied. "But you're going anyway."

The keys slid across the counter.

She caught them. "You know… for a guy who acts like he doesn't care, you're weirdly helpful."

"I prefer my apartment without bullet holes."

"I'll be fine."

"I doubt it," he said. "But bring back the car. I just tuned the stereo."

She left before she could grin too hard.

The car coughed like it wanted to die.

Victor's so-called "modest acquisition" was handled like a half-rebuilt beast from the 2040s. No self-drive, no turbo, no decent dampening system. But the engine had guts, and the plating had obviously been reinforced. V didn't ask what kind of gunfire it could resist. Knowing Victor, probably military-grade.

"What the fuck even is this thing..." She murmured, attempting to define the vehicle before her.

But she bit her lips, knowing that if Victor heard her, he'd comment on her simply walking. 

She'd make due with what she got. 

She reached the drop point fifteen minutes early—because Victor always said "early means breathing, late means dead"—and parked across from a rundown bar with broken signage that flickered out of sync with itself.

It felt strange to do things so methodically. Night City never took things slow, much less allowed people the ability to plan a gig. 

"Place looks like a body waiting for a chalk outline," she muttered.

The job was simple, according to Padre: go to the back of the bar, collect a sealed crate from a guy named Gil, and deliver it to a garage three klicks north. No fuss, no danger.

Except Gil never showed.

Instead, two men stood by the crate. They weren't smiling. One had a reinforced jaw, the kind that could bite through a pistol. The other had a militech patch still stitched to his vest, half torn.

"You the girl?" Jawbone asked.

"Depends," V said cautiously. "You Gil?"

"Gil's not around."

"Not helpful," she muttered. "You're Padre's crew?"

The two looked at each other, then back at her. The answer came with the flick of a gun barrel.

"No. But thanks for bringing the car."

She didn't hesitate.

Her knee shot up, catching the militech vet in the crotch. She ducked low as his partner fired, the bullet zipping over her shoulder. Rolling behind a dumpster, she drew her pistol—half an antique, half rebuilt by Victor—and fired two rounds through the rusted metal.

Screams.

Not from them.

From someone else. Another guy had shown up—tall, sharp fade, flak jacket stained in blood not his. He'd been walking into the alley just as the shots rang out and now had a gun drawn too.

"¡Pinche madre! Who the fuck are you?!"

"V," she snapped. "Who the fuck are you?!"

"Jackie Welles," he said. "I was here for Gil too!"

"Did Padre send you?"

"Another fixer. Gustavo. Said it'd be clean."

They didn't have time to compare gig details. One of the ambushers tossed a grenade. V grabbed Jackie's jacket and yanked him flat behind the dumpster.

The blast hit hard. Sharp ringing. V could barely hear Jackie curse. Smoke.

They scrambled in opposite directions—V taking the left flank, Jackie the right.

Jackie was fast. He ran at the guy who'd thrown the grenade, knocking the gun from his hand and slamming him against the wall. V took out the last one with a shot to the leg and then another to the chest.

The firefight was over in thirty seconds.

But the sirens were already coming.

Jackie whirled around. "I've got a motorcycle stashed a block from here—"

"No good," V said. "I've got a ride but it's on foot."

Cops swarmed in before either of them could decide.

"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

By the time they hit the pavement, both of them had zip cuffs on and knees digging into their backs.

"Fuck me!" She spat, hitting the concrete floor. 

"Hey! Watch the face puta!" Jackie huffed, feeling the badge's knee pushed against his spine. 

The next moments were tense with V feeling her gut wrenched. The one opportunity and she screwed it. Her dreams were crushed before it could even start. 

The cop car eventually stopped, and they both were transported to holding cells, the two sitting across from one another. Both tense and equally tired. 

Jackie broke the silence. "So, V, right?"

She nodded, cradling her ribs. "You really just walked into that gig, huh?"

"Shoulda been smooth. Easy pay. Man, I gotta start asking more questions."

"Victor's gonna kill me if they impound his car."

Jackie grinned. "You got a choom that smart?"

"Roommate. More like a landlord with lab access."

"Damn. I need one of those."

V looked at him. Broad-shouldered. Knuckles raw. That weird mix of casual and steel.

"You always this casual after almost dying?"

"I'm from Heywood. This is a Thursday."

She cracked a smile despite herself.

"Hey," Jackie added. "You were fast. Think we made a good team."

"Team didn't get paid."

He laughed. "Shit, that's true."

The beat cop opened the door. "You two. Out. Charges dropped."

"What?" they both said.

The officer didn't clarify. Just uncuffed them and shoved them out into the hall. They were bruised, but free.

Outside, Victor was waiting.

Leaning against the same beat-up car, arms crossed. His mask shimmered in the streetlights. He said nothing until V reached him.

"Your fixer lied," she said.

"I assumed he would, though today was no such thing," Victor replied. "A simple misfortune, a choke point between four differing parties."

She blinked. "So this was a test?"

"No," he said flatly. "This was Night City. But it was instructive."

Jackie stepped forward, his hand gesturing for a handshake. "Garcia's Choom, I appreciate you pulling strings. Mama Welles wouldn't have been happy to pick me up."

Victor looked at him, eyes narrowing behind his mask.

"You have strength and manners... Impressive. V could learn something from you. You may ride alongside her." Victor voiced.

Jackie raised a brow. "Ride?"

V gave him a grin. "Means he doesn't hate you."

Jackie looked between them and smiled. "Guess I passed the vibe check."

Victor turned away. "Get in before I change my mind."

The apartment was dim when they got back. V flicked the lights on with a sharp elbow tap, the hallway strip-florescence humming to life. The space was a hybrid of two lives—half domestic clutter, half weapons testing lab.

Victor had already disappeared into his corner.

He dropped his coat on the rack, removed the mask with surgical care, and set it on its charging dock beside a row of tools that looked like they belonged in a black site. His workshop took up almost a third of the apartment: soldering bench, three open cases of dismantled optics, and something that looked suspiciously like a plasma cutter rigged to a microwave.

Jackie stood just inside the entrance, eyes scanning the organized chaos.

"Damn," he said, whistling low. "You build missiles in here or launch 'em?"

Victor didn't answer. He was already checking the diagnostics on his interface pad, hands moving with precise efficiency.

Jackie stepped a little deeper into the apartment. "Hey, man, just sayin', you ever need a guy who knows how to scrap, fix an engine, keep the drinks flowing—I'm just a call away."

Victor's eyes didn't leave the interface.

Jackie grinned, undeterred. "No? Not even a little 'thanks for not dying next to her'? Or 'solid right hook back there, Welles'?"

Still nothing.

V yanked off her jacket and threw it onto the couch. "Jackie," she said gently, "he doesn't like being interrupted when he's calibrating."

Jackie looked at her, mock-offended. "That what this is? Calibrating? Thought he was tuning a damn railgun."

Victor finally spoke, without looking up. "If I were tuning a railgun, this building would already be condemned."

Jackie blinked. "...Is that a threat or a brag?"

V raised a brow. "Yes."

Jackie held his hands up in surrender and took a seat at the small fold-out table, which doubled as both dining space and blueprint review desk. "Alright, alright. I get it. Mi casa es tu casa, but don't poke the doomlord while he's tweaking wires."

Victor glanced at him once, expression unreadable. Then back to his work.

Jackie, on the other hand, paused slightly. 

Doom?

V grabbed a half-melted burrito from the freezer, tossed it into the auto-oven, and leaned back against the counter.

She was tired, but the adrenaline hadn't worn off yet. It never did right away. Not after a gig that should've gone sideways, but didn't.

Jackie nudged one of the datapads on the table. "So, this is like a full-time thing for you guys? Living together, balancing your weird mix of serial killer energy and deadpan sass?"

"Balance is generous," V said. "It's more like nuclear stalemate. He pays the rent. I keep the place clean. We stay out of each other's way."

"Mostly."

Victor's voice came from behind the mask again. He hadn't moved, but somehow he'd already donned the helmet, the glow from the visor casting sharp lines across the wall. It was like he needed the anonymity to reset.

Jackie leaned back in his chair. "Man… you're like some retired war mech who got stuck with a roommate and now moonlights as a toaster repairman."

Victor turned toward him fully. "You think I'm retired?"

Jackie paused. "No. No, I do not."

V gave him a look like, stop while you're still breathing.

The auto-oven beeped.

She grabbed the burrito, split it in half, handed a piece to Jackie. "Padre'll probably reach out again soon."

Jackie chewed. "You mean this wasn't a one-time thing?"

"No such thing in Night City."

Victor returned to his desk and pulled up a comm interface. His voice came low, quiet, but still carried through the room.

"Padre. It's done."

A beat.

"…Understood."

The call ended. Victor disconnected and powered down the workstation.

Then—finally—he stood and looked at them both.

"She'll recover. The target was protected."

V watched him. "You gonna start charging extra for superhero gigs?"

Victor's tone didn't change. "I charge for time, not delusion."

"Could've fooled me. Takes a bit of street cred to get the badges of us." He voiced, leaning back against the counter, sipping from a can of NiCola.

He was still scuffed from earlier—the skirmish, the arrest, the cheap release—but the bruises on his jaw were starting to bloom nicely. He didn't seem to mind.

"So," he said between swigs, "you two always live like this?"

Victor didn't look up from his soldering. "Efficient. Quiet."

Jackie smirked. "Could use a couch, is all I'm sayin'. Maybe some paint that doesn't look like the walls gave up halfway through existing."

V snorted. "You want throw pillows too, choom?"

"Shit, maybe I do."

Victor finally looked up, tool cooling in his hand. His gaze swept the room, then landed on Jackie like weighing a piece of scrap for resale.

"You're not staying here."

Jackie held up both hands. "Hey, relax. I'm not movin' in. Just hangin'. Long enough to say thanks for the help earlier."

"She did most of the work," Victor said, nodding toward V. "I merely picked up the pieces."

Jackie turned to her, a grin tugging at his busted lip. "Well then, guess that makes this next part easier."

He pulled a beat-up holo-card from his jacket and flicked it toward her. She caught it mid-air, thumb brushing over the shimmering logo: El Coyote Cojo.

"Tonight. Meet the real crew. Couple of drinks, no gigs, no politics. You saved my ass. Least I can do is buy you a beer."

V glanced over the card, then looked at Victor, who was already back to fiddling with wires and tools like none of them were there.

"I don't do bars," Victor muttered.

Jackie chuckled. "Didn't ask. You strike me as more of a tea and looming silence kinda guy anyway."

Victor didn't respond. He didn't need to.

V tilted her head, considering.

It had been a long few weeks. Fixer jobs, scraps, broken doors, hospital visits. Watching Victor break someone's spine like snapping dry wood. Watching the world not care.

Maybe a drink wouldn't kill her.

"I'll swing by," she said, pocketing the holo-card.

Jackie pushed off from the counter, flashing that too-wide Valentino grin. "Preem. Wear somethin' that doesn't scream 'I dismantle drones for rent money.' Might even find you a dance partner."

"I'll bring my shock baton, just in case."

He laughed as he headed toward the door, tapping his knuckles twice on the frame. "Later. Don't stay up too late contemplating the void."

The door shut behind him.

Victor soldered in silence for a while, then finally asked, without looking up, "My reason constitutes your decline... But logic deduces you'll no doubt attend, I presume?"

V nodded, tugging her jacket off the wall hook. "He's alright. Rough around the edges, but not a scumbag. Besides, I could use a drink."

"You'll regret it," Victor said calmly.

"Probably."

She lingered a moment, tugging her sleeves down, and adjusting the collar. He didn't look up, just kept working, as if her presence was ambient—expected, unnecessary to address.

Then he said, low and offhanded: "Ring me if you find yourself in an unfavourable predicament... I'll await your ping"

V blinked. "You expecting trouble?"

"I always expect trouble."

She gave him a half-smile. "That's why you keep me around."

Victor didn't respond. But something flickered in the corner of his eye—something unreadable.

She let herself out.

The hallway was damp and smelled like mildew. Her boots echoed as she moved toward the stairs, hands tucked in her jacket pockets. Her pistol was light at her side. The weight felt familiar.

Night City buzzed beyond the rusted railing, a symphony of broken music and angry light.

El Coyote waited.