404: Doom Not Found

- 10 years before canon -

The door to El Coyote Cojo groaned open, letting in a gust of damp air and a newcomer who didn't belong. V stood in the threshold a second too long, scanning the bar.

She caught the weight of it immediately—low conversation laced with tension, the subtle hush that came when unfamiliar boots crossed old turf. The bar was alive with flickering neon, lacquered wood, rusting fixtures, and faces that had known each other for years.

And then there was her.

Outsider.

She'd thought about bailing the moment she saw the place. But Jackie had insisted—said it was just a drink. Said his crew wouldn't bite.

She wasn't convinced.

Still, she stepped inside, boots clicking against aged tile, trying not to look like she was sizing everyone up. The scent of tequila, spiced meat, gun oil, and stale cigarettes rolled over her like heat. Latin hip-hop buzzed softly through old wall-mounted speakers. Somewhere in the back, a laughter burst out—a deep belly-laugh that broke the tension for a heartbeat.

Jackie Welles stood near the corner booth. Broad-shouldered and easy to spot, he wore that same crooked grin from the gig a week ago. Hands in his jacket, leaning with lazy confidence. He waved her over.

V moved through the tables, eyes on her, subtle but unmistakable. Valentino boys with cyberchrome under their eyelids, neck tattoos, slick cuts, armored jackets embroidered with saints and lowriders. She nodded at one; he didn't nod back.

She reached the booth. Jackie stepped aside to let her in, then thumped the table with a knuckle.

"Ey, ey! This is the one I was tellin' y'all about. New blood with old nerves."

The three others sitting across the booth didn't say anything for a beat. One leaned forward slowly. Another chewed a toothpick. The third—dark eyes, glossy synth-skin on his cheek—tapped ash from a smoke and gave her a once-over.

V nodded. "Name's V."

They didn't offer names back. Jackie gestured with a half-empty bottle. "Cristóbal, Flaco, and Tito. Been tight since back before the shit hit the fan."

Cristóbal was the one smoking. Flaco had gold-plated dermal knuckles. Tito looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

Camila sat next to Cristóbal. Jackie hadn't mentioned her. She was clearly with him—sharp brows, long dark hair, thin silver crucifix hanging against a flak vest. She studied V like she was a loose wire near an open circuit.

"You're not from around here," Camila said.

"Watson," V replied, sitting carefully. "Not far. Just… different."

Flaco snorted. "Yeah, Watson different."

Jackie reached to pour her a drink. "Easy, chooms. She held her own last gig. Quick with a deck, quicker with a pistol."

Camila raised a brow. "Let me guess. Padre's gig?"

Jackie nodded.

"Figures."

V watched them watching her. A quiet tension between curiosity and challenge. She didn't shrink from it.

"You don't gotta like me," she said, "but I'm not here to step on anyone's shoes."

Tito leaned forward. "Then why come?"

V met his gaze. "Because Jackie asked."

That paused them. Tito nodded once, lips pressed thin. Jackie grinned and topped up her glass.

The conversation shifted—slowly, reluctantly. Talk of gigs, of borders and corpo drones flying low in Rancho. Someone mentioned a busted arms deal in Pacifica. The names flew fast, places V didn't recognise, references to old crews, buried beefs. She didn't interrupt. She listened.

Camila hadn't spoken again until Jackie stood to grab another round. "You fight?"

V blinked. "You mean in general, or…?"

Camila shrugged. "You walk into a bar full of Valentinos like you've got someone behind you. That's either guts or backup."

"I've got backup," V said, calm. "Me."

Camila smiled faintly. "Good answer."

Jackie returned, arms full of drinks. "Now it's a party."

It wasn't. Not yet. But the ice had cracked.

V raised her glass with the others. They drank. Not as friends. Not yet. But no longer strangers entirely.

And that was something.

The mezcal burned smooth. Cheap stuff, but the warmth helped. V leaned back against the cracked leather of the booth, eyes half-lidded. Laughter started to bubble up around the table now—forced at first, then easier, like the pressure was finally bleeding off the valve.

Jackie talked with his hands, told a story about some back-alley smuggler in Dogtown who tried to fence him "smart bullets" that turned out to be repackaged .22s. The punchline landed, and even Flaco cracked a smile. Tito snorted and raised his glass again.

V didn't laugh—but she smirked. Small win.

Camila still watched her with that long, evaluating look. She didn't drink much, only sipped—eyes sharp, reading the room like she'd done this more times than she could count. She leaned in toward V between bursts of noise.

"You're not just a runner," she said, voice low, private. "Not with how Jackie talks about you."

"I'm nobody special," V replied.

Camila gave a skeptical look. "Jackie don't talk about nobodies. Especially not with pride."

V hesitated. "We just met."

"Exactly."

The rest of the table wasn't listening. Jackie was retelling a gig gone sideways, gesturing with wild enthusiasm, spilling mezcal onto the table as he mimed a slide across a bar top, gunfire blazing behind. Cristóbal nodded like he'd heard it all before, but still found it funny.

Camila kept her voice quiet. "You looking to join a crew?"

"No," V said, too quick.

Camila raised a brow. "Good."

Silence passed between them.

"You worried I'll pull Jackie away?" V asked after a beat.

Camila's eyes flashed, but she kept her tone even. "I'm not worried."

V nodded slowly, then turned her attention to the group again. The room was getting louder. A few more regulars had shown up—Valentino jackets, chrome teeth, gold chains, low-rider music bleeding from the jukebox near the bar. One of them clocked V's presence and didn't hide the side-eye. Jackie noticed and clapped the guy on the shoulder.

"Relax, carnal. She's cool."

The guy gave a tight nod and moved on.

V couldn't help but feel the invisible line drawn around her. She wasn't part of this crew. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Even if Jackie vouched for her.

Especially because he vouched for her.

Jackie leaned closer, grinning. "So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"El Coyote. Mi gente. The vibe."

V looked around. Smoke curled in low-lit corners. Laughter carried in Spanish and Spanglish. Guns in holsters. Knives in boots. Tattoos in places that hurt. And that old smell—grease, tequila, wet concrete.

"It's a bar," she said.

Jackie laughed. "Shit, that's all you got?"

"It's not my home."

"Fair," he said. "But nothin' wrong with new blood. Just gotta earn it."

Cristóbal suddenly slammed his glass down. "You earn it by staying. Not breezin' through like some corpo tourist."

V blinked. "You think I'm corpo?"

"You smell like Watson," Flaco muttered.

"And you smell like a threat," Cristóbal added.

Jackie frowned, leaning forward. "Easy, hermanos."

"I am easy," Cristóbal said. "She walks in like it's nothing. She walks out, maybe brings eyes with her."

"She's clean," Jackie said.

Cristóbal shook his head. "Ain't nothing clean in Night City."

V didn't flinch. "If you want me gone, say it."

Cristóbal stared at her. Then leaned back with a scowl, knocking back his drink. "Not my bar."

Jackie sighed and sat down again. "Don't take it personal. Cristóbal's seen too much betrayal to trust anyone quick. Gotta warm up slow."

"I don't expect warmth," V said.

Jackie gave her a look. Not pity—respect.

That was better.

Camila broke the silence. "What'd you do before gigs?"

"Ran net, mostly. Some hustling. Whatever kept me fed."

"No family?"

V paused. "Not worth talking about."

Camila nodded like she understood.

Across the room, someone cranked the jukebox. Los Tigrillos spilled into the air, bassline heavy. A couple in the corner started dancing. The tension scattered again, thin as mist. Tito and Flaco launched into a side debate about some local gang turf dispute in Arroyo. Jackie leaned back and cracked his neck.

"You drink enough," he said, "even bad nights feel like nostalgia."

V raised her glass. "Is that wisdom or a warning?"

Jackie grinned. "Both."

V blinked down at her glass—empty again—and squinted at the lights overhead. They pulsed, red and gold, like the city bleeding from the ceiling. Her cheek rested against the cool of the table for a second before she sat up and forced herself to straighten. The room was warmer now. Louder. Camila had long since slipped away to talk to someone at the bar. Jackie was on his feet again, joking with some of his old crew near the jukebox, laughing in bursts loud enough to shake the windows.

V felt adrift. Not excluded—but not tethered, either.

She checked the time on her shard. Way past midnight.

Someone behind her knocked over a chair and cursed in Spanish. Her head throbbed, and her stomach had started to pitch—not from drink exactly, but from a kind of dislocation. The kind that came from being in a room full of people who knew each other so well they could finish each other's sentences… and didn't quite know what to do with her.

She'd made it work—until now.

"Time to go," she murmured to herself, rising from the booth.

She nearly stumbled.

Jackie noticed from across the room, gave a half-wave. "You good?"

She nodded, but her balance betrayed her.

The tequila didn't hit hard—but it had hit weird. Probably the lack of food. Or maybe just the atmosphere. She pressed a hand to the booth and looked around. Camila was gone. Flaco and Tito, deep in some kind of argument. Jackie—busy, already turning back to his old crew. Which was fine. This was his place.

She slipped toward the door.

The air outside was worse. Cold. Wet. Electric.

Night City rain.

She made it a block before her legs gave out—knees sagging as she sat hard on the curb. Her shard buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled for it, blinking away raindrops.

Padre? No.

Not a gig.

She scrolled past three missed messages. Then hesitated. Then scrolled again.

And called Victor.

The line clicked open after three rings.

Silence.

"You're awake," she said.

"Yes."

She winced. "Sorry, I just… I'm outside El Coyote. Jackie's. Just needed some air."

More silence.

"Air," he said at last. "In this weather?"

She wiped her eyes. "Don't start."

"Stand ready for my arrival."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, the beat-up car rolled up to the curb, engine coughing in protest. Victor sat behind the wheel like a gargoyle, eyes lit faintly from some inner interface.

She opened the door and collapsed into the passenger seat, water dripping down her jacket sleeves.

He didn't speak.

Not at first.

Just pulled away from the curb and drove in silence.

The city washed by in streaks of sodium orange and cobalt. After a while, she glanced over.

"You're gonna say it, aren't you?"

Victor didn't look at her. "Say what?"

"That I should've known better."

"I don't have to say it. You already do."

She groaned, leaned back against the headrest. "They weren't that bad. Just… tight-knit. Protective."

"They didn't trust you."

"They don't know me."

"They knew enough."

Silence again. The wipers ticked.

After a moment, she said, "Jackie's okay though. I mean, I think. He's got that… thing. Like he believes in people, even when it's stupid to."

Victor turned slightly, just enough to glance at her. "He's a romantic."

"Is that bad?"

"No. It's rare."

She laughed. "Since when are you into sentimental crap?"

"I'm not. But I know how it ends."

She looked out the window again.

After a while, she said, "You ever make a fool of yourself?"

He snorted once, barely audible. "Once."

"What happened?"

"I burned a country."

She blinked. "Okay."

They pulled up to the apartment complex. Victor parked and turned off the engine.

"You going to make it up the stairs?" he asked.

She waved him off. "I'm not that drunk."

He didn't open his door.

"Thanks," she said.

Still nothing.

She stepped out of the car into the rain, boots splashing against slick pavement. The door clicked shut behind her, dull and final.

V lingered on the curb a moment, watching the headlights bleed across the wet asphalt. Victor hadn't said a word since they left El Coyote. Not after her half-drunken ramble. Not when she thanked him. Not even now.

The car's engine gave a low growl.

She turned to say something—anything—but the window was already rolled up. His face, pale behind the tinted glass, showed nothing.

Then the car pulled away. Not fast, not dramatic. Just a smooth, silent departure like the end of a job. Like she was just another stop in the middle of a longer route.

She stood there until the taillights disappeared into Night City's sprawl.

Only then did she move, slow and quiet, her footsteps echoing against the cracked stairs of their complex. She didn't bother taking off her boots. Dropped her soaked jacket by the door.

In the workshop, she paused.

The salvaged cybernetics still lay on the bench, neat and gleaming. Not like junk. Not like trophies. Like pieces of a bigger puzzle.

She didn't ask questions.

Not out loud.

Victor never answered those anyway.

And for now, she was too tired to go looking for answers.

She turned off the hall light, let the silence return.

And wondered, faintly, just how much her life had changed without her noticing.