"Are you mad I caused all those lives to be lost?" Crane asked, feigning sympathy.
"Why would I be mad? Their lives don't concern me," Singed replied flatly.
"Yeah, me neither," Crane said, smiling faintly at the thought. "I don't actually ca—"
"I'm intrigued," Singed cut in.
Crane raised a brow. "How so?"
Singed sat down across from him, tapping the newspaper where it read: 'Heimerdinger suggests the drug may have been contagious, spreading through wounds or fluids.'
"A fear toxin," Singed mused, "so potent, so reactive… it mimics a virus. I underestimated your work."
Crane leaned back, visibly pleased. "Coming from you, that's high praise. So… I take it you won't tell anyone?"
Singed shook his head. "What you do in your spare time isn't my concern."
Then, after a beat, he added:
"What I don't understand is why you limit yourself."
Crane chuckled. "Limit myself? I try my best at everything I do." His tone was almost offended—almost.
Singed wasn't amused. "You did at first. When you created the fear toxin. The laughing gas. Those were brilliant."
He met Crane's eyes.
"But over time, you've dulled. Your intelligence… faded. Why?"
Crane was quiet for a moment. He took a deep breath, eyes drifting down to the newspaper on the table.
"Because the more I act stupid, the more I believe it," he murmured. "I've noticed… stupid people are happier than the intelligent."
He looked up and met Singed's gaze.
"Tell me, could you—in good faith—say you're happy?"
Singed didn't answer. His silence stretched, heavy and unblinking.
Crane leaned back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
"Stupid people are too stupid to know they're unhappy."
Crane straightened from his lean.
"But hey—I'm still a hell of a lot smarter playing dumb than half the under-city."
Singed stood.
"Your help with shimmer is satisfactory as is. I won't tell you to be smarter—though it would help. Just don't become a burden."
Crane nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. I won't be a burden. I do still want to be paid, though."
Singed returned to his workbench without a word, focusing once again on shimmer.
——————————
Later that night.
Running through the undercity, Crane wore his full scarecrow attire, coat flaring behind him.
After working with shimmer, he decided it was time to wipe out the remaining organ trader bases.
And that's exactly what he did.
He walked right up to the front door of one of the hideouts, knocked, and waited. The moment someone opened it, he slammed a balloon filled with fear toxin into their face and kicked them back inside.
Door shut.
Simple.
Hit-and-run style.
A few seconds later—gunfire.
Crane chuckled to himself behind a nearby wall.
The sound dragged on for minutes, dry and amused.
"They didn't even see it coming."
Then—
A click.
Something cold pressed against the back of his head.
"Move and I shoot."
Crane's eyes shifted sideways. A group of armed survivors had flanked him.
One stood directly behind him, gun cocked.
"Wasn't me, dude."
"We saw you," one of them snapped.
"That little trick of yours would've killed us all—if we didn't have a back door."
Crane tilted his head.
"Ohhh, that's how you survived. Neat."
The group started threatening him—ranting about how he shouldn't have messed with them, how they were going to make an example out of him.
But while they talked, Crane was already at work.
Quietly, he began shifting.
His brain slid down through his spine and into his tail.
His hearts pushed down into his legs.
A hidden balloon of fear toxin crept up into the hollow of his skull.
He looked forward, dead calm.
"I'm going to move now. So you should kill me."
The gunman tensed, refocusing on Crane.
Crane yawned.
Bang!
The bullet struck his head—bursting the toxin balloon inside. With his mouth open, the gas sprayed outward in a fast, concentrated wave.
The others didn't even have time to react.
They breathed it in.
Crane stumbled forward from the impact, holes torn into his flesh.
The others screamed, panicked, and opened fire.
Bullets tore through his torso and skull.
But none of them hit his brain.
None reached his hearts.
He stood there, bleeding—and smiling beneath the mask.
With a slight tilt of his head, Crane adjusted the crooked mask on his face.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and swept his tail—blades cutting clean through the stunned survivors' necks.
Heads hit the ground in near-silence.
His body slowly stitched itself back together,
reconnecting and holes sealing with sickening ease.
He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and shifted his organs back into place—brain to skull, hearts to chest.
From within his stomach, he pulled out a folded map, damp but legible.
"Let's see, let's see…" he muttered, scanning it. "Ah. There we go."
The gunfire had drawn a small crowd.
Curious eyes peeked from alleys and broken balconies. A few steps closer and they saw him—standing atop the bodies, casually reading.
Crane looked up, stuffed the map into his pocket, and waved cheerfully.
"Don't mind me. Just taking out the trash."
Someone in the crowd stepped forward—an older man, eyes wide, voice shaking.
"Thank you… for dealing with the organ traders. You don't know how many of us live in fear."
He dropped to one knee.
"You're… our hero."
Crane froze mid-step. His smile vanished.
"Hero?" he repeated, disgust curling in his voice like rot.
Shaking his head, Crane muttered, "I'm not saving you. I'm just clearing out my competition."
The crowd fell silent. Faces stiffened. Some stepped back.
A mother pulled her child behind her.
Somewhere in the back, someone whispered, "Monster."
Crane grinned beneath the mask, eyes gleaming with something wild and theatrical.
He turned on his heel and broke into a run, calling over his shoulder—
"Spread the word about me!"
"Tell everyone how scary and evil I am!"
His laughter echoed through the alley, sharp and gleeful, trailing behind him like smoke.
—————————
This is a busy month with all the testing and studying.
I don't study, I just like pretending I do it makes me feel smarter.