Cybergate 2027 - A Baldur's Gate 3 / Cyberpunk 2077 Crossover

IV

Morning—the worst part of waking up. Lae'zel rolled off her bed, still in the night's clothes, and grimaced at her own smell. The long workday and lecherous night demanded an emergency shower. Her foot bumped into something... A case file. How did it get to the floor? And how did she get home? Apparently, she'd drunk too much.

A strong coffee should fix that. She stumbled to the kitchen, counting the steps: one, two... five... ten. Her flat remained cosy—small some would say—but it suited her needs. The kettle started heating up. A repeated ringing annoyed her... The digiphone—she'd never wanted a communications implant. Lae'zel stumbled to the device, growling.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Wyll."

"I know, istik."

"Are you hungover?"

"No."

"Great," Wyll said, obviously not buying her clever denial. "Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Very well. You left your motorbike at the Last Light Inn, so I can come pick you up."

"Why?"

"We're partners, aren't we?"

The kettle whistled, summoning her to a wonderful coffee break. "I'll call you back."

"But—"

Lae'zel hung up, sighing in relief, and muted the mobile device. After coffee. A packet of Ultracorp's Ultradose contained enough chemcaff to kill children under thirteen—that should do the trick. Soon, a steamy aroma rose from her single and only mug, cleansing her sinuses with its burning sensation.

She had the first sip—Wonderful—and sat with the case file in the living space recliner. The gory photos of previous victims called to her, begging to be given a voice. "Who are you, mystery murderer?" she said. "What unholy desire compels you to do this?" The dead spoke through their blank stares and grotesque injuries, revealing the last moments of their fading minds. Terrified screams, desperate pleas, and grim, final acceptances provided clues about the killer's psychology. Eliminating criminals was straightforward—Lae'zel had sent enough to Avernus—but murdering the helpless, the innocent, required a dishonourable disposition she didn't possess. Still, it was up to her to give those people justice.

Bursts of violence and posed bodies suggested someone compelled by a dark urge, an irritation that grew until she could no longer suppress it. The murder rate had increased in the past two weeks, meaning she'd strike again soon... but where? The ten victims were male and female, rich and poor, young and old, all fully conscious when stabbed and slashed. The murderer eschewed strangulation, guns, and poison.

"Your urge needs blood—doesn't matter whose. You see yourself as an artist of bloodshed, someone satiating their madness with torture and mutilation."

A twisted psychopath—there was no shortage of those in Baldur City. How could she locate a single wretched soul, hiding among millions, ready to strike when it pleased?

"Tsk'va," Lae'zel muttered, shutting the case file, and walked to the fridge. Leftovers, a dry piece of cheese, mouldy bread, rotten meat, smelly... something, soda, energy drinks, wine, and an open pack of Cheenkos! She shoved half-crushed salty snacks into her mouth and washed them down with soda.

The chemcaff was already working its magic, waking her up for the day. Dark clouds had gathered outside the window. She messaged Wyll, telling him to pick her up, and ran into the shower. Ten minutes later, still wondering what in that accursed case was eluding her, she walked out of the elevator, wearing a clean set of black leather clothes, and smelling fresh enough to preempt any prickly remarks from the freelance detective. Tim the doorman stood in the lobby, portly and cheerful, with a cottony white beard that she always felt like stroking.