Cyberpunk 2077: Doom

Pov: Vincent "V" Alecaldo 

Outside the Badlands

The sun hung low over the Badlands, turning the jagged horizon into a shimmering mirage of heat and dust. The air smelled of scorched rubber and engine oil, a familiar cocktail that clung to the skin and brought back memories of long nights under the stars, the hum of the convoy engines lulling us to sleep. Back when the road stretched endless, and freedom felt tangible, just a touch away.

Now, freedom came with a price tag, and the road led to nowhere but trouble.

I sat on the hood of my Quadra, boots propped on the bumper, a cigarette smouldering between my fingers. The old car had seen better days, but so had I. Its once-pristine paint job was now a patchwork of dust, dings, and bullet holes—a story told in dents and scratches.

Panam paced in front of me, her boots kicking up small clouds of dust with every agitated step. She was always like this before a gig, full of restless energy she couldn't burn off. Her jacket, patched with Aldecaldo insignias, flared behind her like a flag in the wind.

"Fixers are vultures," she spat, not for the first time. Her tone was sharp, cutting through the hum of the Badlands like a blade. "Out here, it's simpler. You need something done, you go to someone you trust. No middleman taking a cut. No corpos playing puppet master."

I took a drag off my cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily into the air. "Simpler, sure," I said, exhaling. "But it's not the same game, Panam. Out here, it's about survival. In Night City, it's about power. Fixers, middlemen—they're just the grease that keeps the machine running."

She stopped pacing, turning to glare at me. "Grease? You think Rogue is grease?"

I shrugged, tapping ash onto the hood of the Quadra. "Rogue's an exception. She's a legend. But most of 'em? Yeah. Grease. Necessary, but not worth admiring."

Panam crossed her arms, her expression tight. "You used to think differently."

"Yeah, well," I said, flicking the cigarette into the dirt. "That was before I left the Aldecaldos. Before I saw what it's like to run solo. Fixers might be shady, but they get the jobs that pay. Out here, you're bartering bullets for water half the time."

"Better than selling your soul," she shot back.

I laughed, the sound bitter. "Selling my soul? That's rich coming from you, working gigs for Nash of all people. He's a snake, and you know it."

She bristled, her fists clenching at her sides. "Nash is a means to an end. Same as everything else."

"Exactly," I said, sliding off the hood and standing to face her. "So don't act like you're above it. Fixers, middlemen, whatever you want to call them—they're all just means to an end. Same as Nash. Same as me. Same as you."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the distant rumble of engines and the faint whistle of wind through the barren landscape.

"You miss it, don't you?" she said finally, her voice softer now.

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I looked out at the endless stretch of desert, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the sand. Did I miss it? The Aldecaldos? The sense of belonging, of purpose?

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But not enough to go back."

Panam nodded, her gaze distant. "Me neither," she said, almost to herself. Then she straightened, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Alright, enough of this dreck. Nash is waiting."

"Great," I said, grabbing my gear from the backseat. "Let's go see what kind of trouble he's cooked up for us this time."

We climbed into the Quadra, the engine roaring to life as I floored it. The tires kicked up a cloud of dust as we sped toward the rendezvous, the city's skyline faintly visible in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the darkening sky.

Panam leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed. "You think Nash'll screw us?"

"Does a braindance junkie dream in neon?" I shot back, earning a snort from her.

"Fair point," she said, her lips curving into a smirk. "Guess it's up to us to make sure he doesn't."

"Always is," I said, my grip tightening on the wheel.

The Badlands stretched out before us, a wasteland of opportunity and betrayal, freedom and chaos. Whatever was waiting for us out there, one thing was certain: we'd face it together, like always.

The road stretched out in front of us, endless and cracked under the relentless sun. The Quadra's engine purred low, the kind of sound that got under your skin and made you feel alive. Panam lounged in the passenger seat, boots kicked up on the dash despite my half-hearted protests. The faint jingle of the emerald locket she always wore caught my attention as it swayed with the car's motion.

It was a relic from another life—a life we'd both left behind. The locket glinted faintly, its polished surface catching the light, but it was the history inside that had weight. Victor Von Doom. The name echoed like a ghost. To Panam, he was more than a name, a face in a picture alongside her old Aldecaldo family. To me? He was a story I'd heard too many times, and one I was smart enough not to bring up.

"Boz," she said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Boz?" I asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

"New client." She stretched her arms over her head, sighing. "Runs with 6th Street. You know the type—old vets with more pride than sense."

"And the war's been good to him?" I kept my tone even, but inside I was already wary.

"Good enough," Panam replied, shrugging. "6th Street's routes have been hit hard with all the fighting. They're scrambling, and that means opportunities for us."

"Opportunities like what?" I pressed, taking a drag from the cig smoldering between my fingers.

She grinned, leaning back in her seat. "Smuggling jobs. Weapons, supplies. Nothing glamorous, but the eddies are solid. Way better than babysitting corpo brats or running errands for half-baked fixers."

"Sounds like a blast," I muttered, flicking ash out the window. "And you trust this Boz guy?"

"As much as I trust anyone," she said, her smirk fading. "You've gotta take the gigs you can get, V. You know how it is. Can't afford to be picky when you're the new kid on the block."

I nodded, knowing all too well what she meant. It had only been a few months since we'd both split from the Aldecaldos, and Night City didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat for fresh faces.

"T-Bug says the same thing," I said, steering the conversation away from Boz.

"Your netrunner?" Panam asked, her tone curious.

"Yeah. She's solid. Quick on the keys, sharp as a blade. But we're struggling to find gigs. Decent ones, anyway. Fixers barely look at us—too new, too untested. Street cred's a hard thing to build when you're starting from scratch."

Panam tilted her head, studying me. "You looking to expand your crew?"

"Thinking about it," I admitted. "The duo thing's working, but just barely. We need more muscle, more tech, more… something."

"You ever think about going back?" she asked, her voice softer now.

I glanced at her, surprised. "To the Aldecaldos?"

"Yeah," she said, her fingers brushing the locket absently. "To Saul, to the family. Things weren't perfect, but it was home."

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. "Saul and I had different views about the future. I couldn't stay under his thumb, following his vision of what the clan should be. Same reason you left, isn't it?"

Panam didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked out at the horizon, her expression unreadable.

"It's not the same without Victor," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

I didn't respond. There wasn't anything I could say to that. Victor was her ghost to carry, not mine.

"Anyway," she said, her tone brisk now as if shaking off the weight of the moment. "You're doing okay for yourself, V. You'll find your stride. Night City's tough, but you've got grit. That counts for something."

"Grit doesn't pay the bills," I pointed out.

"No, but it keeps you alive long enough to figure out how to pay them," she shot back, a grin tugging at her lips.

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Fair enough."

The city loomed closer, its jagged skyline cutting against the horizon like broken teeth. Panam adjusted her jacket, her fingers brushing the Aldecaldo patch sewn onto the sleeve. Despite everything, she still wore it.

"You ever gonna take that off?" I asked, nodding toward the patch.

"Never," she said firmly. "You can leave the family, but the family doesn't leave you. Besides," she added with a wink, "it pisses off the corpos."

I laughed, the sound carried away by the wind. "Guess that's reason enough."

As we drove into the chaos of Night City, the conversation turned to lighter things—old stories, shared jokes, and plans for the next gig. But in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both still running from something. The Aldecaldos. The past. Ourselves.

Whatever it was, the city would either burn it away or bury it. And maybe, just maybe, we'd find a way to come out the other side.

The wind rolled over the desert, dry and relentless, carrying the grit of the Badlands into every crevice of the Aldecaldos camp. The flickering light of campfires danced across rusted metal and weather-beaten tents, but my eyes were fixed on one figure sitting alone at the edge of it all: Victor.

Back then, I didn't know much about him. Hell, I didn't like him much either. He was too damn perfect—or so I thought. Every time he walked into a room, Saul or Cassidy would light up like he was the second coming. "Victor can fix it." "Victor can make it better." Always Victor. Meanwhile, I was just another kid with big dreams and no real skills to back them up.

But Victor? He was everything I wasn't—quiet, efficient, and cold as ice. He had this way of looking through people, like he'd already weighed their worth and found them lacking.

The first time I tried talking to him, it didn't go great.

I found him crouched next to one of the camp's old drones, his hands deep in its busted guts. The light from his portable lamp lit his face in sharp contrast, highlighting the perpetual scowl etched into his features.

"What're you working on?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

He didn't look up. "Something important."

"Well, uh, maybe I can help?"

That got his attention. He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "You know the difference between a hydraulic coupler and a coolant line?"

"...No," I admitted.

"Then you can't help," he said, turning back to the drone.

I walked away, seething. I wasn't just mad at him; I was mad at myself. He was right—I didn't know shit.

It wasn't until Saul paired us for a scouting run that things started to change.

Victor was the lead, naturally. I was just there to carry supplies and learn the ropes, but I screwed up almost immediately.

We'd spotted a pack of scavvers picking at a wrecked transport, and Victor told me to take a shot. My hands shook as I lined up the rifle, and the bullet went wide, kicking up dust about ten meters from the target.

Victor didn't say anything at first. He just sighed, walked over, and yanked the rifle from my hands.

"If you're gonna be this bad," he said, leveling the weapon, "at least watch and learn."

His shot was clean and precise, dropping the scav in one hit.

"Like that," he said, handing the rifle back to me.

"Yeah, thanks," I muttered, cheeks burning.

But Victor wasn't just annoyed; he was determined. Over the next few weeks, he drilled me relentlessly. Every free moment we had, he was in my ear, correcting my stance, my grip, my aim.

"You hold it like that, and you'll break your damn shoulder," he'd say.

Or: "You're thinking too much. Just pull the trigger."

It wasn't just shooting, either. Victor insisted I learn how to fight hand-to-hand, too. He'd shove me to the ground over and over again, barking instructions as I tried—and failed—to land a punch.

"Keep your weight centered, or you're done," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Maybe I don't want to be a fighter," I snapped one day, my frustration boiling over.

Victor stepped back, crossing his arms. "Then you're dead weight."

It wasn't until much later that I realized what was driving him.

One night, after a particularly brutal sparring session, we sat by the edge of camp, watching the stars. For once, Victor didn't seem like he was about to lecture me. He just looked… tired.

"You ever think about leaving?" I asked.

"All the time," he said, surprising me with his honesty.

"Why don't you?"

Victor was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Because it doesn't matter where I go. People are always the same. Selfish. Stupid."

"That's… pretty cynical."

"It's realistic," he said, shrugging. "But you? You still think there's something better out there."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

Victor glanced at me, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. "No. It's not."

Over time, I started to see the cracks in Victor's armor. He wasn't the unshakable pillar I'd thought he was. He was angry—at the world, at himself, at the weight of expectations that never let him rest.

He'd sit on the outskirts of camp, tinkering with old tech or staring into the distance, and I realized how lonely he was. The others respected him, sure, but they didn't know him. Not like I was starting to.

I began to make a habit of joining him, even if he didn't say much. We'd scout together, spar together, and, slowly but surely, I earned his trust.

"You're not hopeless," he told me one day, a rare hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Wow, thanks for the ringing endorsement," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Don't let it go to your head," he said, punching my shoulder.

Victor was still Victor—cynical, stoic, and more than a little infuriating—but I'd grown to admire him. He wasn't just a genius; he was a survivor. And in his own gruff, roundabout way, he'd taught me how to be one, too.

It wasn't until he was gone that I realized how much I'd depended on him. How much we all had.

And now, every time I see Panam's locket, I think of him.

Wherever he is, I hope he knows we haven't forgotten him.

Victor always had an ego that could fill the Badlands, and he wore it like armor. It wasn't just confidence—it was certainty. He knew he was smarter, faster, and better than most people around him, and he wasn't shy about letting you know it.

"Tell me again," he'd say whenever someone questioned him, his tone sharp enough to cut steel, "how you're gonna fix that turbine without frying the whole system? Oh wait, you're not."

Or the time Cassidy tried to outdrink him, thinking his age and experience gave him an edge. Victor didn't even flinch as he downed the last shot, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk.

"Guess the old dogs still have something to learn," he quipped, leaving Cassidy fuming and the rest of the camp in stitches.

That ego of his was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it pushed him to do the impossible. He'd fix things nobody thought could be fixed, build gadgets that seemed straight out of a Corpo lab, and hold his own in any fight.

On the other hand, it made him insufferable. If you were working with him, you had to brace yourself for a constant barrage of criticism.

"You call this wiring? A drunk scav could do better."

"Don't even think about touching that. I'll fix it myself before you blow us all to hell."

But here's the thing: he wasn't wrong. Most of the time, his way was the right way, and he had the results to prove it. That only made it worse, though—because how do you argue with someone who's always right?

I used to wonder what it was like, carrying an ego that big. Did it feel good? Did it make him feel invincible?

Turns out, it didn't.

One night, we were out on another scouting run, huddled around a fire under a sky full of stars. Panam was with us, and for once, Victor wasn't his usual snarky self. He was quiet, staring into the flames like they held the answers to something he couldn't quite figure out.

"Why're you always so hard on everyone?" Panam asked, breaking the silence.

Victor glanced at her, then at me, before shrugging. "Because they need to be better."

"That's not an answer," I said, shaking my head.

He poked at the fire with a stick, his jaw tightening. "You think I like being this way? Tearing people down, proving I'm the best? It's not about me—it's about survival. Out here, being good enough isn't enough. You have to be better. Otherwise, you're dead weight."

I didn't know what to say to that. For the first time, I saw the cracks in his ego. It wasn't just arrogance—it was armor. A way to keep the world at bay.

But damn if that ego didn't get us out of more than a few tight spots.

One time, a group of Wraiths ambushed us on a supply run. They had the high ground, better weapons, and the element of surprise.

"We're outnumbered!" I shouted, ducking behind a rusted truck.

Victor just grinned, pulling out a gadget he'd cobbled together from spare parts. "Not for long."

He tossed it into the air, and it detonated with a flash of light and a burst of EMP energy. The Wraiths' tech went haywire, and their advantage disappeared in an instant.

"Still outnumbered," Victor said, cracking his knuckles, "but now they're outmatched."

We took them down, and when it was over, I couldn't help but laugh. "You really think you're the smartest guy in the Badlands, don't you?"

"Not think, V," he said, his smirk in full force. "Know."

For all his flaws, Victor was the kind of guy you wanted in your corner. Sure, his ego was the size of Night City, and his temper could scorch the earth, but he had your back when it mattered.

And if he ever doubted himself, he sure as hell didn't let it show. Not to us, anyway.

Victor's transformation over time was as subtle as it was disconcerting. The loud, cocky young man who once dominated the camp with his bravado began to dim, bit by bit.

His sharp remarks grew fewer, his smirks less frequent. Instead of barking orders and showing off his brilliance, he started spending more time alone, tinkering with gadgets or pouring over old schematics in the far corner of camp.

At first, people thought it was just a phase. Maybe the pressures of life on the road were catching up to him. But it wasn't long before the change became undeniable.

He broke up with Panam on a cold, starless night. She'd cornered him near his rig after a long day, frustration written all over her face.

I had drank from the night before and crashed out in his tent. Didn't like the judgmental looks from the others. 

"Victor, you've been pulling away for weeks. What's going on?" she demanded, arms crossed, her voice sharp but tinged with concern.

Typical Panam, barging in. 

He didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he focused on the ground, as though searching for the right words. "Nothing's going on, Panam. I just... need space."

"Space?" she repeated, her tone incredulous. "What the hell does that mean? You don't just cut people off like this."

Victor finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "I've got things I need to focus on. It's better this way."

"For who? You? Or are you just too scared to let anyone in?"

The silence that followed was deafening. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Panam."

And just like that, it was over.

His solo scouting trips became another point of contention. No one in the Aldecaldos was allowed to go out alone, not with the constant threat of Wraiths, corpos, and the chaos of the Badlands. But Victor's reputation—his uncanny ability to outthink, outmaneuver, and outlast—meant he was granted exceptions.

Saul, always pragmatic, tried to reason with him. "Victor, you know this isn't how we do things. Solo runs are a risk, even for you."

Victor's response was always the same: "I can handle it."

And he could. He'd return from Wraith camps with detailed maps, stolen supplies, and sometimes even their tech, dismantled and repurposed by the time he rolled back into camp.

I've seen few groups ever pull off what he did... Yet we were still kids. A teen a that. 

Some whispered that he was just feeding his ego, proving he didn't need anyone. Others believed he was distancing himself for a different reason—preparing himself for something bigger.

I was one of the few who saw the cracks beneath the surface. During a late-night run, after a particularly brutal skirmish with the Wraiths, we sat by the fire, nursing our wounds.

"You ever wonder why you're still here, V?" Victor asked, staring into the flames.

"Here as in the Badlands? Or here as in breathing?" I replied, trying to keep it light.

He didn't laugh. "Both."

"Not really. I figure as long as I've got something to fight for, I'll keep going."

He nodded, but there was a hollowness in his eyes. "Yeah. Fight for something. That's the trick."

It was moments like that when I realized how much he'd changed. The fire that used to burn so brightly in him was still there, but it was tempered now—controlled, almost cold.

By the time of his supposed death, Victor was a shadow of his former self. The man who once lit up the camp with his arrogance and ingenuity had become an enigma, his motives and emotions hidden behind an impenetrable wall.

Some mourned him deeply, remembering the kindness he showed despite his rough edges. Others, particularly the younger Aldecaldos, saw his detachment as a betrayal—a sign that he'd outgrown the family and left them behind, emotionally and physically.

But I knew the truth. Victor wasn't running away from the Aldecaldos. He was running away from himself. Preparing for something none of us could understand.

Victor was, in a word, an asshole. Not the regular kind of asshole who gets on your nerves just for the fun of it. No, Victor's brand was sharper, colder, laced with the kind of arrogance that cut deep if you let it. But he was also my brother, in every sense of the word.

I didn't grow close to anyone else in the Aldecaldos the way I did with him. Partly because I was a bit of an outlier myself, and partly because being Victor's shadow made it hard for anyone else to stick around.

Most of the others avoided him, their wariness turning into avoidance as his ego loomed larger and larger. But for me? It just made me stick to him harder, as if I'd be able to figure him out if I stayed long enough.

Victor didn't make it easy. He hung out with me because I insisted, not because he was particularly looking for company.

With Saul, he strategized—Victor had a mind like a steel trap and the nerve to match it. Saul respected him for that, even if Victor's growing independence frustrated him to no end.

And Panam? She got the rarest parts of Victor: the fleeting moments of warmth and vulnerability that no one else saw.

One night, we decided to pull a stunt. It was stupid and reckless, but that's what we did back then. Santiago had just come back to camp with a bottle of something expensive—looked like whiskey, smelled like a promise of bad decisions. Victor was leaning against his rig, that usual smirk on his face.

"Bet I could outdrink you," I said, half-joking.

Victor raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the bottle. "You serious, V? 'Cause I don't back down from challenges."

Neither did I.

We swiped the bottle from Santiago's stash like two gonk teenagers on a dare. Found a spot on the outskirts of camp and cracked it open.

"You sure about this?" Victor asked, holding the bottle out to me first.

I grabbed it without hesitation. "You're gonna regret this, Vic."

He didn't. Not for a second.

We downed that bottle like it was our last night on Earth. The burn of the liquor, the laughter, the insults thrown back and forth—it's one of the few times I saw Victor let loose. By the time we hit the bottom of the bottle, I was practically falling over, and Victor... well, he looked like he could go another round.

"Guess that means I win," he said, leaning back with that insufferable grin.

"Bullshit," I slurred. "I was pacing myself."

"Yeah, sure you were."

Morning came with a vengeance, and so did Santiago.

"Which one of you chooms thought it was a good idea to steal my drink?" he roared.

Neither of us confessed, but it didn't matter. Santiago knew. Everyone knew. Our punishment? Cleaning every Aldecaldo vehicle in the camp. By hand.

Victor grumbled the whole time, muttering under his breath about how Santiago probably didn't even like whiskey. I didn't bother arguing—it wasn't like I had the energy for it.

"Next time you challenge me, V," Victor said, scrubbing the dirt off one of the trucks, "make sure it doesn't get us stuck doing this shit."

"Next time, I'll win," I shot back.

He just chuckled. "Sure you will."

That night is one of the memories that sticks out the most when I think about Victor. He was larger than life in every way—his skills, his arrogance, his damn ego—but in moments like that, he was just a guy. A guy who could drink me under the table, who'd put up with my antics, who'd call me out when I needed it.

I didn't get that with anyone else in the Aldecaldos. The rest of the family were... well, family. But not like Victor. He was the brother I never knew I needed, even if he made me want to punch him half the time.

"You okay, choom?" Panam asked.

"Seen better days... Cities got his motif you know. Meet people like him every day here." I voiced.

Fixers and Mercs with Egos bigger than some Corpos.

At least Corpos had the courtesy to smile, these fuckers just scowl. 

"But none as capable... I get it, feels weird seeing him in other people. Yet, they ain't as good as him. No one could improve the tech he left behind... Feels like I chase his shadow every time I fix his stuff." Panam murmered.

We used to sit in his tent late at night after a successful raid... Watched him tinker with new engine designs. Shit was preem, made corpo tech look meek in comparison. Made me wonder what he'd use them for.

"We need to move on from him... Maybe coming to Night City was a way to closure... Maybe it's time we chase our own dreams" 

"Maybe you're right... I guess we'll see. You can drop me off here by the way. I'll walk... Need to get these thoughts out of my mind." 

Stopping the car by the side I let her out. It was rough seeing her like this... This wasn't typical but in recent years I've seen her become more brash and uncertain. 

Saul also became more reserved. Victor's death hit him hard as it did Panam, blames himself the most out of everyone. 

"If you need anything, give me a holler on the holo." 

"Thanks, V... I'll see you around."