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

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Astarion cringed at the first touch of freezing gel. "I don't remember it hurting so much."

"If only we were in my work facility," Doctor Shiv said, twisting his face. "I can control the temperatures better there." He began wrapping gel-soaked bandages over Astarion's knuckles. The discomforting cold soon numbed the pain. They were in a dirty basement that contained numerous metal containers, the treatment chair, and one iron bath that smelled of industrial chemicals—the kind better not asked about.

"What happened to your apartment, Gunther?"

Doctor Shiv sighed. "People in black clothes appeared out of nowhere. I knew better than to ask questions, and ran to the back exit before they reached the door; set my trap up for them, too."

Sharrans, for sure. Astarion nodded. "Did you get any of them?"

"It detonated, if that's what you mean." The doctor cackled, his face lighting with macabre satisfaction. "But while I escaped to the fire exit, my cameras showed them ransacking the place."

"So sorry about this, Gunther."

"Why are you apologising?"

"It might be my fault—for seeing you earlier."

The doctor waved his cybernetic hand, which glistened under the fluorescent lights. "Risks of the trade, my friend. It's not even the first time."

"Oh."

Someone stepped through the basement's steel door, leather boots tapping on dusty concrete floor. A short, hairless man in a grey-blue suit with two metallic, prosthetic hands that glistened with orange lights. "Oi, visitor—time to meet the boss upstairs."

Dr. Shiv frowned. "We're not done yet—"

"Now."

Astarion put his good hand on the ginger-haired doctor's wrist. "It's fine, Gunther. Just make sure the bandages are tight."

"I will, but try not to punch anyone in at least six hours."

A lift took Astarion and the Ironhand goon from the basement to the second floor, which sat under the roof of an old industrial building the gang was using as a base. They crossed a short, undecorated corridor in silence and met two other Ironhands, both with shiny prosthetics and shaven heads, guarding a steel door. Shady was standing near them with arms crossed, still dressed in her blue hoodie, tapping one foot on the floor.

"Took you long enough," she said in her usual sarcastic tone, although her eyes betrayed nervousness.

Astarion showed his bandaged hand and smiled. "I wanted to be able to punch people again."

"Could've got a prosthetic then."

"I'm afraid it doesn't fit the Astarion look."

The Ironhands gazed at them with thick expressions, straining their feeble brains at the conversation. Then one opened the doors. "The boss will see you now."

Astarion straightened his suit and stepped in. Wulbren the Bongle was sitting in a grey armchair beside a shuttered window, dressed in a velvety purple housecoat. Thirty-five years old and 1.65 meters high, the veteran criminal had pale skin, yellow eye implants, and a mean frown. A steel cybernetic construct covered his right jaw and cheek, and his hands, like those of his entire gang, were artificial. Despite his modest stature, he packed a mean punch with those fists. Currently, though, Wulbren's right hand was playing with a silvery e-vape, and his left held a small shot glass, half-filled with amber liquid.

"What trouble did you get yourself into, Ancunin?" he said, his voice dark and severe.

Astarion switched to his confident persona. "Just a little snag—a misunderstanding, really."