- 10 years before canon -
Where others fancy a hammer, a scapel is sufficient.
The Hammer and a scapel, an analogy of precision and force. The difference lay in the details, but what occurred when one had both power and precision?
The answer was Doom.
And Doom was hunting.
---
The overpass hummed low with distant AV traffic.
Below, in the shadow of a crumbling bridge support, three figures crouched in silence. The convoy was late. That was expected.
Victor stood apart, watching the horizon through a worn optical scope, back straight, breath calm. Cloaked in black synth-weave and steel-threaded Kevlar, an emerald cloak embellishing down from his shoulders, down his back and over his head.
A mystical presence - deliberate, archaic and inspiring.
His cloak covered his exo-skeleton, the faint hum of its arc reactor resonating throughout. A consistent hymn that kept tension low.
Behind him, Wilson, a hired merc, adjusted his rifle, scanning the terrain like it still mattered.
"Feels weird being this still," he muttered. His voice was low, but his hand failed to hide his worries.
Twitching ever so slightly his hired comrade took notice.
"Been a while since you've worked under a real op?" Hiedi, the netrunner asked, seated against a barrier, visor down as she flicked through cam feeds.
"Nah," Wilson replied. "Just… this? Whole op feels like we're prepping for a fuckin' presidential transport hit, not a low-tier cargo rip."
Hiedi snorted. "S'pose you missed the part where we're robbing Militech, yeah?"
Wilson chuckled once, then nodded toward Victor. "Still. Suppose it's not what I expected."
"Trust me, most last minute gigs don't reach this level of ferocity. You ex-mil?" Heidi asked.
"Yeah... What gave it away?"
"The smell. You stink like shit."
Startled by her kurt answer, he couldn't help but grin, "Heh, you sure it wasn't my smile?"
"I'm kidding it was your laces. Real proper and neat. You might need to lay back on the etiquette, our kinds not exactly welcome on open circles."
"I guess life on the road never eases."
"Never does. Listen I'll cut you some slack since you seem decent. Keep your head down."
"Head down?"
"You'll understand soon enough. So what's your story? Kick a dog down a flight of stairs and your C.O went wild?"
"ShinTech. Blacksite logistics out in Nevada. We tracked insurgents through jungle heatmaps. Traded desert dunes for a concrete jungle. I guess I wanted a breath of fresh air, couldn't stand the sand."
"Then you came to the wrong place. There are no happy endings here. Concrete Jungles an understatement, you'll find more monsters than animals here."
"Ha, seems you've got stories."
"Too many."
"So tell me, who is he?" He replied hushed, his eyes gesturing to the ever so stoic figure of Victor scanning the field.
"Him? You really haven't done your homework then..."
"What's the big deal? Is he a big shot?"
"I guess it makes sense since you're new... Listen, I don't know if you're connect's dull or not, but Chrome face over there's tight around certain circles."
"What do you mean?"
"Wow... you're really clueless. Listen, the guy's smart and rich. Techie and apparently ruthless solo... I wouldn't stick your nose any deeper than that... How'd a greenhorn like yourself even manage to land here?"
"I guess they needed a new face with a little competence."
"You're lucky then... I don't hear much from the gigs this guy's involved in, but from what I hear, he's got hefty pockets."
"Hefty pockets?"
"Don't get any funny ideas now, the guy's more armed than most tin cans I know. Keep your eyes on the prize. Besides, he's got hefty pockets for a reason, and it ain't just commerce."
"Thanks..."
"Don't mention it, stay sharp, and we might leave this engagement a few eddies richer."
"Preem."
Their interaction was soon interrupted by a soft ping echoing through the air.
Victor turned, slowly, methodically. Not like a man alerted, but like a god momentarily disturbed by thunder from below.
His gaze narrowed beneath the emerald hood. The optics lens on his mask flickered once—a pulse of scarlet light scanning the horizon.
"Movement," he stated, voice calm but cold, like metal against the spine.
Hiedi's fingers fluttered over her pad, AR streams cascading across her visor. "I've got eyes. Convoy's coming in hot. Two hauliers, six AV escorts. Militech markings, plus... something else."
Victor tilted his head.
"Go on."
"Transponder codes say Militech, but their net signature is... wrong. Too clean. Feels scrubbed."
Victor's voice was nearly a whisper, but it cut like a scalpel.
"False flags. External players might be shadowing."
Wilson adjusted his rifle. "Joy. You saying someone else's sniffin' for the cargo?"
Victor didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved to the ledge overlooking the cracked highway below. His cloak whispered against broken concrete, the hum of the exoskeleton thrumming steady. He was not worried.
He was measuring.
Far ahead, dust curled in the distance—four pinpricks of motion accelerating toward the bridge.
"It's begun," Victor murmured.
"Wait," Wilson said, his voice tight. "We're going now?"
"No."
Victor raised a hand—two fingers only.
"Observe."
The vehicles neared—two armoured transports flanked by AVs, all matte black and bristling with smart turrets. Sensors swept left and right. They weren't just moving fast—they were paranoid. Tense. Expecting something.
Victor's lens zoomed in on a half-collapsed building further up the overpass. Movement. Not Militech.
He smirked.
"Crew Two," he said.
"Already engaging?" Hiedi's voice lifted in surprise.
"Desperate. Ill-prepared. Likely scavengers or low-level gangers."
As if summoned by his prophecy, the world exploded in gunfire.
A volley of anti-material rounds burst from the overpass, slamming into the first AV. The craft jolted, spiralled, then burst into flame. Return fire barked in auto-tuned vengeance. Men screamed.
"Jesus," Wilson muttered. "They're tearing themselves apart."
"Militech is disciplined," Hiedi added, eyes glued to the feed. "This Crews got balls, but they're outmatched."
And they were. Through her feeds, the chaos unfolded—the group of misfits emerged in a wave, taking out two guards before half of them were shredded by returning fire. A lone netrunner tried to jack in mid-field—only to get blown apart by a drone strike.
"Sloppy," Victor noted. "Rushed."
Wilson frowned, his eyes surveying Victor's equipment. "So... what's our move?"
Victor stepped back from the ledge, cloak billowing like a prophet descending from the mount.
"Patience. The fire draws flies."
Another minute passed before a new shimmer appeared—less obvious this time.
A cloaked figure flickered into visibility.
"Got something new," Heidi said. "Shit. She's cloaked. Optical camouflage."
The figure slipped past the wreckage, moving with the grace of a ghost. While Crew One got gutted, she moved straight into the second haulier.
Her crew followed—more organised. Only three of them, but tight formation. Precision movements. The ghost's camo dropped briefly—revealing pale skin, an eye implant glowing violet, a quick flash of blood on her side.
"She's bleeding," Heidi said. "But she made it. Netrunner's jacking in."
Victor nodded. "Crew Two. Professionals."
"You knew they were comin'?"
"I suspected. Bees flock to honey, flies wonder."
Another explosion rocked the highway. The first haulier was gone—smoking wreckage. The second was hijacked and turned. Smoke and fire masked their retreat. The Militech guards remaining were confused, disoriented. One shot his own drone out of the air.
Victor raised a hand again. Two fingers bent. Only one remained.
"Now," he said.
Wilson cocked his rifle. "About time."
Hiedi rose, sliding into position behind them.
"Destination's shifting. They're rerouting to a fallback location—coordinates incoming."
"I'll get the move on. They won't be far from here."
"I see. Well, I'll shadow. Keep my eye on you."
"Heh, please, I wouldn't mind an admirer." Wilson smiled before departing, Heidi following suit.
Victor didn't smile or run; he merely turned his eyes to the departing figures of Heidi and Wilson.
The hunt began.
---
Smoke coiled in the night air like incense at a funeral.
Wraith sat in the passenger seat, one hand clutching her bleeding side, the other on her optical deck. Sparks danced across her vision. The override codes were holding—for now.
"Drive, Grip. Faster than your grandma's heart attack," she hissed, blood seeping into her side holster.
The wheelman—Grip—was all clenched teeth and sweat. His chrome arms flexed as he fought the worn suspension of the hijacked hauler, dodging potholes like landmines.
"Already at ninety," he barked. "You want me to hit a hundred in a fuckin' tank?"
"Do it," said Claymore, the last of the three—broad shoulders, buzzcut, ex-Soviet Para turned solo. He sat in the back with his heavy shotgun across his lap, watching the rear cam.
They were three. Crew One. Clean, tight, surgical.
And they were bleeding.
"Militech won't chase," Wraith said, checking the net again. "They're rattled. Scrubbed half their team in the ambush. Too many pings, too much static."
"Yeah, but who were those other fraggers?" Claymore asked. "The ones that got shredded first?"
"Amateurs. Third-rate crew trying to jump the same gig," Wraith said. "Militech minced 'em."
Claymore grunted. "They got lucky. We got the prize."
Wraith nodded. "Damn right we did."
The hauler rumbled over broken asphalt, its suspension groaning beneath military-grade plating. They were deep in Santo Domingo now—moving fast, with drone traffic scattered from the earlier firefight.
The silence that followed felt unnatural.
"Too easy," Grip muttered. "Militech should've had backup. Air support. At least a f—"
"Shut it," Wraith snapped. "No jinxing. No talking."
"Just sayin'…"
"I said shut it."
The fallback location was an old corpo transfer station—long since gutted by gangs, reclaimed, fortified. It was meant to be neutral turf. The buyer was waiting there. High-tier, off-grid, paid in crypto and silence.
They arrived within ten minutes.
The transfer point was dim, ringed in industrial lights and watched over by two turrets. A few hired guns in grey body armour stood by, but they didn't smile.
Too tense.
Grip killed the engine. The convoy groaned to a stop.
Wraith slid out, holding her side. Claymore stayed near the rear, eye on the package. The prototype wardrobe in the back—a sealed container the size of a family closet—still pulsed faintly with heat and shielding.
Wraith turned to face the fixer.
Tall. White blazer. Augmented jawline. No visible weapons. Slick voice.
"You brought heat," he said flatly.
"You brought attitude," Wraith fired back. "We got the goods. You didn't mention competition."
He ignored that. "Militech's now flagged this whole district. NCPD went Code Red half an hour ago. You've upset a lot of people."
"We were professionals. We executed the hit. If someone else crashed the party, that's on you."
The fixer gave a soft, disappointed sigh. "That's not how this works."
Something shifted behind him.
The bodyguards raised their rifles.
Wraith didn't even draw.
"…You're kidding."
"I'm not," the fixer said. "I was told to clean this up. No witnesses. I was hoping for a cleaner detonation mid-transit, but I suppose improvisation is necessary."
Claymore raised his shotgun slowly. "Bad call."
"On the contrary," the fixer replied. "You were good. But your kind never retires clean."
He gave the signal.
The world erupted again.
Bullets tore through the quiet like a string section being executed. Grip went down instantly—face caved in, eyes open. Claymore managed to take two bodyguards with him, blowing one into red mist before being riddled with smart rounds.
Wraith dove behind the hauler, clutching her wound, scrambling for her pistol. Her HUD screamed—low blood pressure, elevated heart rate, netlink disrupted.
She was alone.
She switched to thermal.
The fixer's crew was advancing. Three more enforcers flanking him. Wraith dragged herself under the hauler, panting, blood pooling beneath her. She coughed, copper in her mouth.
But then—
The fixer stopped.
So did his men.
They turned their heads… not to her, but to something else.
To someone.
A silhouette stood at the far edge of the lights. Emerald cloak drifting like smoke. Still as death. Unarmed, yet commanding.
The fixer blinked, as if unsure what he was seeing.
"Who the..." he muttered.
The man stepped forward once.
And the lights went out.
Turrets died. Optics shortened. The world became black—save for a single scarlet glow beneath Victor's hood. Like an eye that had seen empires rise and fall.
The fixer drew his weapon—but failed, in an instant, his cybernetic arm refusing to listen.
Wraith, half-conscious, bleeding, blinked against the dark.
She saw the fixer's crew ripped apart, their heads bursting into confetti. A bright light emitted from the reaper's gun, each flash showcasing the grotesque scene within the dark.
Then nothing.
Silence.
Wraith, bleeding out, barely aware of her own breath, looked up from beneath the haulier.
And saw him.
Victor Von Doom, standing at the edge of the light.
Watching.
Not gloating.
Not pitying.
Simply… present.
The last thing she saw was his cloak billow forward, like judgment made manifest.
She could only muster one thought before passing.
"Fuck, he looks cool..."
Then, black.