Chapter 24 - Chapter 24: Rainbows

Author Notes:

I've noticed some inconsistencies with my writing and timeline, I didn't know Panam was Thrirty-three when I first wrote this fanfic. I've adjusted it to make sense, Victor is now Thirty-four which lines up with his more mature outlook and makes the All-father set-up realistic. If you have any thoughts and ideas feel free to write them down, engagement keeps me writing. We'll be doing a time skip to 2077.

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Pov: David Martinez

Downtown 

The warehouse was quiet—too quiet. It wasn't just the usual Night City quiet, either, the kind you get when the buzz of the city fades into the background hum of machinery. No, this felt staged. Like we'd walked straight into a trap.

"Shit gives me the creeps," Rebecca muttered, gripping her shotgun tight. She popped a fresh stick of gum into her mouth, chewing loudly. "You sure about this, Davey? Feels like we're about to get flatlined."

"Relax," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Doc wouldn't set us up. Not after the job we just pulled."

Sasha, ever the pragmatist, scanned the room. Her sharp eyes darted to every shadow, every corner. "Doesn't mean we're safe. Just means he's got a reason to keep us alive—at least for now."

Before I could respond, the hum of an approaching vehicle cut through the silence. The garage door at the far end of the room groaned open, and in rolled an emerald-and-black Quadra Type-66 Avenger. The thing looked like it could eat lesser cars for breakfast.

"Damn," Rebecca whispered, her gum momentarily forgotten. "That's one hell of a ride."

Then he stepped out—the Doctor. Well, a Doctor. He looked the same as always, all precision and presence, his movements just a bit too smooth, his voice clipped and formal.

"David," he said, his tone even as his gaze swept over us. "I trust you've been keeping busy."

I stepped forward, arms crossed. "You didn't drag us all the way out here for small talk. What's this about?"

The Doctor gestured to the car, its engine purring like a beast. "Payment for your service. And this." He tossed me a credchip. The numbers lit up—200,000 eddies.

"Holy shit," Rebecca said, leaning over my shoulder to get a look. "That's a lot of scratch. Guess the Doc knows how to say 'thank you.'"

Sasha, ever skeptical, narrowed her eyes. "And what's the catch?"

The Doctor straightened, his tone growing colder. "No catch. A responsibility. You and your crew will oversee Santo Domingo. The convoys moving in and out of the district? They're your problem now. Ensure they flow smoothly, without interference. You'll answer to me."

Rebecca laughed, loud and sharp. "You're serious? We're running Santo Domingo now? Just like that?"

The Doctor's expression didn't change. "Correct."

I glanced at my crew. Sasha looked thoughtful, Rebecca grinned like she'd just hit the jackpot, and me? I wasn't sure what to think.

"Why us?" I asked finally. "You've got plenty of other mercs in this city."

"None like you," he said simply. "Your crew is efficient, adaptable, and loyal. Traits I value. Don't prove me wrong."

There was something about the way he said it, like a threat wrapped in a compliment.

Rebecca tilted her head. "Alright, so what if we do screw it up?"

The Doctor's eyes—too steady, too cold—locked on her. "Failure isn't an option. But if it happens... you'll wish it hadn't."

The air grew heavy for a moment before the Doctor stepped back toward the shadows. "Your vehicle awaits. Do not disappoint me, David."

And just like that, he was gone.

As we climbed into the Quadra, the tension started to lift. Rebecca was already fiddling with the dash, her grin wide. "Yo, Dave, you sure you're cut out for the whole 'district boss' thing? You're barely tall enough to see over the wheel."

I smirked. "Keep talking, Becca. You'll be walking."

Sasha, sitting in the back, was quiet for a moment before finally speaking. "Something's off."

Rebecca groaned. "Oh, come on, Sash. We just got a free car and a fat stack of eddies. Lighten up."

"No," Sasha said, her voice firm. "Did you notice the way he moved? The way he spoke? That wasn't the real Doctor."

I frowned, gripping the wheel tighter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that was a proxy. A puppet. The real Doc? He wasn't even here."

The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, the whole interaction felt different. The way he'd watched us, like he wasn't really there... because he wasn't.

Rebecca shrugged. "Proxy or not, he's still the Doc. And if he wants us running Santo Domingo, we'll run it. Right, Dave?"

I nodded, the weight of the new responsibility settling on my shoulders. "Yeah. We'll run it. Just gotta make sure we don't mess this up."

The sleek black-and-emerald Quadra Type-66 Avenger growled as I guided it through the cracked streets of Santo Domingo. The Doctor had delivered a hell of a gift, but the ride didn't erase the weight pressing on my shoulders. The district was mine now—or at least, it was my job to keep it in check. It felt unreal, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a world I wasn't sure I could handle. 

Sasha rode shotgun, her expression as unreadable as ever, her tech glasses reflecting the dim glow of passing streetlights. Rebecca lounged in the backseat, idly spinning a pistol on her finger. 

"This car's sick, choom," Rebecca said, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "Think it can outrun Maelstrom or what?" 

"Guess we'll find out," I replied, smirking at her through the rearview mirror. 

"Let's not have to," Sasha muttered. "We've got enough on our plate without testing how bulletproof this thing is." 

Her tone was sharp, but I caught the edge of tension in her voice. This new role was weighing on all of us, but Sasha carried it differently, always thinking three steps ahead. I didn't argue. The idea of settling into Santo Domingo felt strange—less running, more responsibility. It wasn't just about surviving anymore. 

The Doctor had arranged for a safehouse—a top-floor apartment in one of the older buildings near Rancho Coronado. As we pulled up, the building loomed over us, its cracked facade glowing faintly under neon signs advertising dubious services. The place had history written all over it, though none of it seemed particularly good. 

"Home sweet home," Rebecca joked, hopping out of the car and stretching. 

"Better than the street," I said, grabbing the keys from the dash. 

We made our way up the creaking staircase, the faint hum of the city below filtering through the cracked windows. The apartment wasn't much, but it was functional. The main room had a few couches, a small kitchenette, and a desk cluttered with outdated tech. A panoramic window offered a grimy view of Santo Domingo's sprawling industrial sector. 

Rebecca immediately claimed a couch, sprawling across it with her boots propped up on the low table. Sasha wandered to the kitchenette, opening and closing cabinets with a faint frown. 

"This is supposed to be secure?" she asked, glancing at me. 

"It's a start," I said, tossing my jacket onto a chair. "We'll reinforce it. Put some feelers out for hardware and security upgrades tomorrow." 

"Good. 'Cause I don't trust this place yet," she replied. Her tone softened, and she looked at Rebecca before glancing back at me. "I'm gonna take a walk. Get a breather. You two… settle in." 

She didn't wait for a response, slipping out the door with an air of purpose. I watched her leave, the unspoken meaning behind her words lingering in the air. Sasha always had a way of looking out for us, even if she didn't say it outright. 

I turned back to Rebecca, who had shifted her position on the couch, watching me with a lazy grin. "You think she's trying to give us 'alone time,' or is she just that paranoid?" 

"Maybe a little of both," I said, moving to sit beside her. 

Rebecca shifted closer, leaning against me, her head resting on my shoulder. The usual bravado in her voice was replaced by something softer. "It's weird, huh? All this power, and it still feels like we're just kids trying to survive." 

I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. "Maybe we are. Doesn't mean we can't figure it out." 

Her laugh was quiet, almost self-conscious. "You make it sound so easy, D." 

"It's not," I admitted, my voice low. "But we've made it this far, right? Together?" 

Rebecca tilted her head up, her big, expressive eyes searching mine. There was something vulnerable in her gaze, a crack in the armour she always wore. "Yeah. Together." 

We sat like that for a while, the hum of the city below filling the silence. She curled into me, her small frame fitting perfectly against my side. I ran my fingers through her hair absentmindedly, the moment feeling strangely domestic—something I never thought I'd have in this city. 

"You know," Rebecca murmured, her voice muffled against my chest, "I think Sasha's right about this place. It's a dump, but it's our dump." 

I chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Yeah. We'll make it work." 

Her arms tightened around me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on my shoulders didn't feel so heavy. We didn't say anything else, just let the quiet between us speak louder than words. 

When Sasha returned later, she didn't comment on how she found us—Rebecca half-asleep in my arms and me staring out the window, lost in thought. She just smirked, muttered something about "lovebirds," and settled onto the other couch with a data pad. 

I didn't mind the jab. For the first time in a long time, it felt like we had something worth holding onto.

---

Pov: Third Person 

City Centre

His proxy—a Doombot designed to mimic his presence—had completed its task. David and his crew, unwitting pawns in a much larger game, were performing as expected. Their eagerness betrayed their naivety, yet they sufficed for the roles assigned to them. Victor remained in the shadows, the architect of events they could not comprehend.

The burner phone in his pocket vibrated softly, a subtle intrusion into his thoughts. He retrieved the device, its matte-black surface reflecting none of the city's vibrant lights. The call's origin was masked, its encryption rudimentary at best. He allowed the connection to stabilize, more out of curiosity than concern.

"...Doctor," a voice stammered after a brief pause. "They call you the Reaper, yes?"

Victor remained silent, his expression unchanging. The voice on the other end faltered, then continued with a forced bravado.

"I've got a—a job for you. Big one. There's someone in my way. Word is you're efficient."

Victor's fingers hovered over his interface, examining the data stream laced with subroutines attempting to infiltrate his systems. A clumsy effort, transparent in its intent. He dismantled the intrusion with mechanical precision, watching as the malicious code unravelled into meaningless fragments.

"Sloppy," he murmured, his tone devoid of emotion.

"Wait, no—" the voice on the other end stuttered, realization dawning too late.

Victor released a custom daemon—a silent predator tailored for digital extermination. It traversed the connection, bypassing firewalls and encryptions as though they were mere illusions. Somewhere across the city, a netrunner's mind was being erased, each memory and impulse consumed by Victor's indifference.

The call terminated without ceremony. Victor leaned back, his gaze returning to the cityscape. His internal systems logged the brief encounter as another reminder of the inefficiency inherent in desperation.

Moments later, the burner buzzed again. Another request. Then another. The calls came in rapid succession, each one offering eddies and information in exchange for his services. His network of proxies—Doombots scattered across the city—sorted through the deluge, categorizing the gigs into familiar archetypes:

Gun for Hire: Neutralize a target.

Search and Recover: Locate and retrieve a specific item.

Agent Saboteur: Disrupt or dismantle a key operation.

SOS: Merc Needed: Rescue an individual in peril.

Thievery: Steal an asset from a secured location.

Special Delivery: Transport a high-value package.

Victor's selection process was deliberate and methodical. He disregarded those lacking sufficient challenge or purpose. The weak and foolish had no place in his plans.

A message stood out amidst the noise—a mother's plea for vengeance. Her son, an innocent caught in the Tyger Claws' web of violence, had been brutally murdered. She offered twenty thousand eddies for justice. Victor marked the gig, issuing orders to his Doombots with a single command.

---

Riku Tanaka, lieutenant of the Tyger Claws, felt it before he saw or heard anything—a subtle shift in the air, like the static charge before a storm. The nightclub pulsed with neon light and pounding bass, but the unease gnawed at him. Something was wrong.

"Oi, Tanaka-san," one of his men muttered in Japanese, his voice tight. "You feel that?"

Tanaka scowled, hiding his own trepidation. "It's nothing. Focus."

The lieutenant's command did little to quell the growing tension. His men—veterans of countless street wars—began shifting nervously. The oppressive beat of the club's music was suddenly drowned out by an eerie silence. The faint hum of servos broke the stillness as the steel-reinforced doors at the far end of the room crumpled inward.

Through the smoke stepped three figures. Their humanoid forms gleamed under the strobe lights, their angular designs more machine than man. Red visors glowed like unblinking eyes, scanning the room with cold precision.

"Borgs!" someone yelled in Japanese, panic lacing their voice.

"Shoot them!" another barked, raising his rifle.

Gunfire erupted, filling the air with the acrid smell of burning propellant. The intruders moved with an unsettling fluidity, sidestepping bullets and dismantling attackers with clinical efficiency. One bot caught a Tyger Claw mid-charge, its steel claws slicing through flesh and bone with no more effort than cutting paper. Another unleashed a plasma burst, incinerating two gunmen in an instant.

"Kami-sama! They're unstoppable!" a soldier screamed, scrambling for cover.

Tanaka drew his katana, the blade crackling with an electric charge. He charged the nearest bot, unleashing a flurry of precise strikes. The machine parried each with ease, its movements calculated and almost mocking. It grabbed his arm, twisting until the bone snapped with a sickening crunch. Tanaka fell to his knees, his weapon clattering to the ground.

The lead bot loomed over him, its red visor casting an unholy glow on his face. "Good night," it intoned, its voice a monotone spectre of doom.

Tanaka's world faded to black as the blade descended.

From his remote location, Victor observed the carnage through the Doombots' shared feed. The Tyger Claws had been eradicated with ruthless efficiency. He uploaded the footage to the grieving mother, attaching a brief message:

Justice delivered.

Her response came moments later, her voice raw with grief and gratitude.

"Thank you. You've done more than anyone else in this city ever would."

Victor closed the message without a reply. In the vast chaos of Night City, her gratitude was a whisper against the relentless tide of desperation and greed. He turned his gaze back to the neon-lit expanse, his work far from over.

Here's the expanded and refined version, incorporating the development of Victor's energy generator and the Iron Legion:

Victor's private comm line chimed softly, the encrypted frequency reserved for his most trusted confidants. A flick of his fingers brought a holoscreen into view, casting a muted green glow across the dim room. Vulcan's familiar face filled the screen, the usual sharp smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes betrayed the urgency of the call.

"Boss," Vulcan greeted, leaning back slightly in his seat. Behind him, the faint hum of a bar's ambient noise created an oddly serene backdrop. "Got something big. And I mean big."

Victor inclined his head slightly, signaling Vulcan to continue.

"NUSA's gearing up for an assault," Vulcan began, the smirk slipping away. "Operation Reunification, they're calling it. Myers wants a statement, and you're the headline act. Texas is their next target, specifically the Allfather's empire. They think taking you down will scare the rest of the federations into falling in line."

Victor's expression remained impassive, but the faintest narrowing of his eyes betrayed his thoughts.

"Details," he said, his tone calm but commanding.

"Militech's got their hands deep in this," Vulcan continued. "Drones, black ops, the usual. They're mobilizing forces along the border. Some squads are even nosing around already. It's a clear provocation. They're trying to bait you into making the first move."

"They underestimate me," Victor replied flatly. "Their arrogance will be their undoing."

"Of course it will," Vulcan said with a grin. "But that's not all. Got another piece of news for you. Remember those energy generators you've been waiting on?"

Victor's fingers stilled against the desk, his gaze locking onto Vulcan's.

"Go on."

"They're ready," Vulcan said, the grin widening. "We've cracked it, boss. Enough power to keep your Iron Legion running indefinitely. Not just the drones and the recon units—the full arsenal. Borgs, warframes, AI combat units... you name it. And trust me, Militech's tin cans don't hold a candle to what you've got now."

Victor's lips curled into the faintest shadow of a smile, a rare acknowledgment of satisfaction.

"Deploy the generators," he ordered. "Begin production immediately. I want the first wave operational within the week."

"Already in motion," Vulcan replied. "But there's one more thing. You've been under the radar for a long time, boss. The Iron Legion… it's going to attract attention. Not just from Militech, but from anyone who thinks they've got a shot at playing kingmaker. You sure you're ready to step back into the spotlight?"

Victor's tone hardened. "I do not seek attention. I seek results. And those who challenge me will learn the futility of their efforts."

"Fair enough," Vulcan said with a chuckle. "Just don't forget—some of us enjoy watching the fireworks. I'll keep the network tight, boss. No loose ends."

The call ended, leaving Victor alone in the silence of his quarters. He rose from his chair, moving toward the concealed terminal embedded in the wall. With a wave of his hand, the interface activated, displaying the full tactical map of Texas.

New data points began to light up, marking the locations of his freshly activated energy generators and the production facilities for the Iron Legion. As the map updated, it became clear that the balance of power was shifting.

Victor's gaze lingered on the map, the faint hum of the generators in his mind's ear like a promise of what was to come. The Iron Legion was no longer a concept; it was a reality. And its presence would reshape the battlefield.

He tapped into his command console, issuing orders across his network. Recon drones would monitor Militech's advances, while sleeper agents prepared to counteract any infiltration attempts. Meanwhile, the first wave of Iron Legion units would be stationed strategically, ready to unleash devastation upon the NUSA forces.

Victor's thoughts drifted briefly to the past—the wars, the betrayals, the empire he had forged through sheer will and intellect. Now, with the Iron Legion at his command, he would ensure that Texas remained unbroken.

As he stepped into his personal transport, the cityscape of Night City faded into the distance, replaced by the barren expanse of the Texas borderlands. The NUSA sought to bring him to heel, but they would find only ruin.

Victor Von Doom was no mere warlord. He was a force of nature, a master of strategy and destruction. And now, with the Iron Legion at his side, he would ensure that the Allfather's legacy endured—not as a relic of the past, but as the harbinger of a future no one could contest.