After reading through the papers and sketching down the schematics, night finally fell.
Crane gathered everything—maps, documents, diagrams—and tucked them neatly into the cavity of his stomach.
He picked up the axe, resting its weight over his shoulder, then stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.
The lab was empty when he arrived.
"Probably gone to bed. Old people love to sleep," Crane muttered under his breath, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
He made his way to the industrial freezer, opened it, and pulled out the container of organs. With a hiss, the freezer door shut behind him.
Now holding the heavy container in one hand and the axe in the other, he realized he was at capacity.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the axe into the air behind him—then, mid-spin, caught it cleanly with his tail.
"I have a tail for a reason," he said with a crooked grin, adjusting his grip on the container.
Without another word, he turned and left the lab, heading toward the meeting point to deliver the organs—and collect whatever came next.
———————
He arrived early.
The alley was dim and quiet, lit only by flickering neon signs overhead. He scanned the space—no one was there yet.
Could I sell my own organs if needed?
The thought surfaced as he glanced down and lifted his shirt, studying the skin beneath.
But after a moment, he tugged the fabric back down.
Never mind. Even Singed said it—my body's different from normal humans.
He leaned casually against a wall, shifting the weight of the container in his hand. Time passed.
Then movement—figures entering the alley.
Crane straightened up, tail tightening its grip on the axe, hiding it behind his back.
The group of well-dressed individuals hesitated as they saw him standing there.
He noticed their pause and spoke, holding up the container.
"Don't worry—I'm just here to sell you the organs. I'm made of sugar, spice, and everything nice."
One of the men in the back narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"I am the master of fear, the lord of despair—cower before Scarecrow!" he declared with theatrical flair.
"…So you're Scarecrow?" someone asked flatly.
"Don't forget—master of fear."
A man stepped forward, arms crossed. "What happened to the others? There's usually a group that handles these trades."
Crane coughed, glancing away. "Oh, them? They're sick. Couldn't make it. So they sent me."
From the back, one of the doctors asked, "Really? All of them? What do they have?"
Crane didn't miss a beat. "Genital herpes."
.
.
.
Then the man in front handed over the money. "Here's the money."
Crane took it with one hand, the other still holding the container. He counted the money quickly, then nodded.
"Here—your organs."
He passed the container off, the weight shifting into the man's arms.
The buyer held it carefully. "Well… it's a pleasure doing business with you, Scarecrow—Master of Fear."
"Likewise," Crane replied.
The group began to leave, their footsteps fading into the alley.
Watching their backs, Crane thought to himself, Sugar, spice—I'm not that nice. More like salt and vinegar… and everything sinister.
With a quiet chuckle, he turned and made his way back to the lab, slipping into his room like he'd never left.
He laid down on the floor and closed his eyes.
———————————-
When he opened them again, he found himself standing over his own sleeping body—flickering faintly in the dim light.
He was in his astral form now.
Without hesitation, he drifted through the wall, gliding silently above Zaun, following a familiar path through the grime and metal.
He stopped outside The Last Drop.
"I've never actually been in there in person… surprising. I should. If I really want to know them more."
He phased through the wall and descended into the basement.
Vi and Powder lay in their beds, fast asleep.
Floating closer, he reached toward the orb of dreamers hovering faintly above Vi's head—and touched it.
And just like that, he slipped into her dream.
——————————
Looking around, Crane found himself in the arcade—the same one where they'd fought before.
He immediately turned himself invisible within the dream.
Vi stood across from a dream-version of him, her perception of who he was. They were squaring off again, fists clenched, energy high.
"Round three, let's go! Don't give up this time—I want you to keep fighting," Vi said with a grin, fists up.
Crane just stared, thoughtful.
Does she really want another round? When does it stop? She's calling this round three… will it go to round fifteen?
He watched the dream version of himself raise his fists.
I should probably fight her here too, he thought.
And just like that, he replaced the dream double—taking his place directly in front of Vi.
"Don't worry," he said, voice low. "I won't give up. I know how much you like to see me struggle…"
"Huh?" Vi blinked, caught off guard, pausing for a moment to process his words.
While she was thinking, Crane stepped in and drove a punch straight into her stomach.
Vi stumbled back, face flushed—not just from the hit, but from what he said.
Then the real fight began.
Blows flew back and forth—some landing hard, others expertly blocked.
The two moved like they'd fought a hundred times before, neither backing down, neither giving in.
It went on for a while. The tension only grew.
They clashed again, both winding up for a final punch—
—and then, somehow, they both tripped.
Maybe Crane's fault.
Probably Crane's fault.
Either way, they fell—and accidentally kissed on the way down.
Crane willed the dream, making sure their teeth didn't clink together as they collided.
For a moment, silence. Neither moved.
Crane felt it, though—the surge of power growing within him, his connection to her deepening with every second.
He could feel her life force slipping through, his own strength growing as it drained away from her.
Vi felt it too.
She could feel the weight of her life force weakening, her strength fading with each breath they shared.
And in a desperate move, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer.
Crane smiled. He could taste her weakness, savoring the power shift.
But then, without warning, she bit his lip, drawing blood.
She pulled back, eyes cold, staring at the blood on his lip.
She still held his head, her grip tightening as she glared at him.
She didn't like being weak.
And Crane could tell.
"Don't tell anyone about this. It's just a coincidence that we kissed. I don't love you," Vi said quickly, her grip still firm on his head.
"I mean, how could I?" Crane smiled. "This is just a dream, remember?"
Vi hesitated.
"I mean, look around," he added, gesturing subtly. "Doesn't it all seem a little off to you?"
Her eyes darted across the space—details slightly blurred, logic slipping.
Her mind was catching up.
"You say you don't love me," Crane continued, leaning in slightly, "but you dream about kissing me."
"You're wrong. You don't know anything," she snapped.
"Yeah, sure," he replied with a shrug.
"Disagree with me. I'm just part of your subconscious after all… What would I know about you?"
He knew the truth. Knew he wasn't a figment of her imagination. But Vi didn't.
Vi's mind raced—thoughts crashing into each other like fists.
Did I really want to kiss him? Was that true? Do I… love him?
——————————
In a flash, Crane was ejected from her dream, snapping back into his flickering astral form mid-air.
"Tch. What happened? I still had more to do…"
Then he noticed her.
Vi, now awake, sitting up in her bed, her face red and her thoughts clearly spiraling.
Crane hovered for a moment, watching with quiet amusement.
Guess it was too much for her to handle, he thought.
She rubbed her face, muttering under her breath, trying to shake off the weight of the dream—but the blush remained.
Significant progress, Crane thought to himself, drifting in the astral plane.
I even got a kiss. Though she bit me again. I hope she doesn't have a thing about biting…
With a quiet scoff, he turned and phased through the wall, gliding through the undercity night toward topside.
His form flickered like broken light in the undercity as he reached the Kiramman estate.
He slipped effortlessly through the walls, passing through polished marble and high ceilings until he found her—Caitlyn—fast asleep.
Wrapped in neat blue blankets and wearing crisp blue pajamas, she looked like she hadn't moved once since lying down.
Everything about her was composed, orderly. Controlled.
Crane hovered silently, studying her face.
Let's see what's behind all that discipline, he thought, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
He saw the orb of dreamers hovering above Caitlyn, glowing faintly in the darkened room.
"Please don't be the same as last time," Crane muttered under his breath as he reached out and touched the orb.
In an instant, he was pulled into her dream.
——————————
As usual, Crane immediately turned himself invisible upon entering the dream.
He looked around and found himself standing in her dream version of her room.
Caitlyn was sitting on the edge of her bed, dressed sharply, posture perfect—like she was waiting for someone.
A knock echoed at the door.
"Come in," Caitlyn called.
The door opened, revealing a composed house butler. "Your guest has arrived, ma'am. He presented your badge. Shall we let him through?"
Caitlyn stood and approached the door, calm but with a spark of anticipation in her step.
"Of course," she replied. "I told you—if someone has my badge, they're allowed through."
She stepped out into the hallway. "I want to greet him myself."
Crane followed silently behind, invisible in her dream, brow furrowed. Did she give me a badge? No… I don't think she did.
As Caitlyn reached the front door, she paused briefly to adjust her hair—smooth, meticulous. Crane stayed nearby, watching with mild amusement.
She opened the door.
Standing there was the dream version of Jonathan Crane.
He was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo, polished dress shoes gleaming under the entryway light. Composed, charming, perfectly put together.
Crane blinked. Okay… she's already dreaming about me. That's good. But… He sighed, I kinda wanted to earn this.
Make her fall for me piece by piece—not just have her fall when we first met.
The dream-Crane stepped inside with a smooth smile. "Hello, Caitlyn. Jayce gave me your badge and told me to meet you here. And I have to say—you smell incredible."
Crane exhaled sharply.
Again with the scent thing… What is it with her obsession over me telling her she smells good?
He couldn't shake the frustration building within him.
With Vi, at least her dreams are sane—if I could say that—but Caitlyn's are just fake.
If I let her have dreams like this, she'll be disappointed when I don't act like this in real life.
He gritted his teeth, watching Caitlyn continue to gaze at the fake him with wide eyes, clearly enchanted by his polished persona.
Her expectations of me are too high, Crane thought, so I'm going to lower them.
I can't keep up with this… image of me she's built in her mind.
With a snap of his fingers, the dream shifted.
Everything around them melted away.
The polished walls of Caitlyn's estate crumbled into the harsh, gritty landscape of the Undercity.
The familiar, grimy streets of the undercity replaced the pristine floors and immaculate décor.
Caitlyn blinked, disoriented as the surroundings changed, her dream changing.
She was no longer in the comfort of her home but standing amidst the filth of the Undercity, the sounds of distant machinery and the smell of fumes filling the air.
Crane, now visible and in his usual "hillbilly" attire—no mask, just the ragged clothes and unsettling air about him—stood confidently in front of her.
"Caitlyn, let's go. We're going to be late," he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her along.
Caitlyn blinked, glancing around, confused. "Huh? Wait… Jonathan, where are we?"
"What do you mean? We're in the Undercity," he said, not slowing his pace. "Don't you remember? You said you wanted to see my home."
She blinked again, uncertain. "Oh… yeah. I think I remember."
She didn't. Her mind was just stitching logic together to keep up with the dream.
Crane flashed her a crooked smile.
In her other dreams, he noticed, he smiled nicely. Polished. Gentle.
He wouldn't be giving her that here.
The two of them walked side by side through the Undercity.
Caitlyn looked around—eyes wide at the alleyways filled with shadowed figures, homeless kids, addicts huddled around glowing pipes and shattered bottles.
"Jonathan… what's wrong with them?" she asked, pointing.
Crane immediately reached up and lowered her arm. "Don't point. It's rude."
He looked ahead. "Those people? They're addicts. Homeless. Forgotten."
"Why don't the homeless just… get a job? Buy a house? And the drug addicts—why don't they just stop?"
Crane sighed through his nose and gave her a sideways look. "It doesn't work like that down here. Good jobs don't come easy.
And for some people? Drugs are the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely."
He pulled her along, a little more firmly this time.
"Just leave them be," he said. "Don't even acknowledge them. They're already too far gone."
"But… there must be something we can do," Caitlyn murmured, her voice tight. Her eyes shimmered, nearly wet.
As they continued down the dim, cluttered paths of the Undercity, she couldn't stop noticing it all—the crumbling walls, the smell of rust and rot, the vacant stares of those huddled in corners.
A few tears slid down her cheeks before she even realized.
Crane noticed. Of course he did.
"Don't cry for them," he said, voice sharp but not unkind. "It's not worth it."
She turned to him, brows drawn. "It's human nature to feel bad."
"You think I don't understand?" he replied, his tone low and dry.
"I live here. I breathe the same poisoned air. I'm always one step away from becoming one of them."
He paused, then added, "Don't cry for people who gave up. Save those tears for the ones who tried."
A moment passed before he sighed. "But… I suppose I could help them."
Crane walked over to a group of homeless kids huddled by a rusted vent.
He slipped some coins into one of their hands without a word, then turned and walked back.
"Does that make you feel better?" he asked.
Caitlyn rubbed at her eyes, blinking away the rest of her tears before offering a small smile. "Yeah… it kind of does. I guess you do have a heart."
"Who said I didn't?" Crane replied. "I've got emotions, just like you."
He took her arm again and led her onward until they reached a narrow, rust-stained door nestled between cracked pipes and ivy-covered brick.
It was a plain Zaunite home—nothing more than a box of brick and steel with peeling paint and a flickering hallway light.
Compared to the Kiramman estate, it was tiny. Smaller than her bedroom, even.
Crane glanced at her reaction, thinking, Yeah, no way I'm showing her the lab. That'd be stupid.
He pushed the door open and guided her inside, shutting it behind her.
Caitlyn glanced around the cramped space, eyes scanning the mismatched furniture and crooked picture frames—until she landed on something above the kitchen doorway.
She squinted. "Is that a sign that says… Live, Laugh, Love?"
Crane blinked, then groaned. "I keep forgetting to burn that."
He stared at the Live, Laugh, Love sign with visible irritation.
He wasn't even sure how it ended up here—he'd had that same sign in all of his homes back in his past life.
He must have placed it here subconsciously, like some haunting habit.
Trying to ignore it, he went over to a small table and pulled out a stack of papers.
"I've been working on schematics for Jayce," he said offhandedly.
Caitlyn perked up. "Oh right—you mentioned you were making something. Can you tell me what it is?"
"It's a secret," Crane replied smoothly, spreading the schematics out on the table.
Caitlyn leaned in for a better look, but the lines and symbols were strangely blurry to her—like her mind couldn't fully focus on them. Dream logic, maybe.
Before she could say anything, Crane flipped the paper over to the blank side and grabbed two pencils from a drawer.
"Now for something I've always wanted to try," he said, handing one of the pencils to her.
"What did you always want to try?" she asked, puzzled.
"Tic-tac-toe," Crane replied, drawing the grid of lines.
"It's a game. We take turns—one person is X," he said, sketching an X in the top left corner,
"and the other is O." He drew a circle in the center.
"First one to get three in a row wins."
Then he casually erased the marks and passed her the pencil.
"Why did you always want to try this?" Caitlyn asked, still a little confused.
Crane looked at the board for a moment before answering. "Because I didn't have any friends to play it with."
That line hung in the air, soft and heavy.
Caitlyn glanced down at the pencil in her hand, her fingers tightening slightly.
She understood that feeling—more than she wanted to admit.
She'd spent years surrounded by people and still feeling alone.
She looked back up at him and offered a small, sincere smile. "Okay… let's play."
They played, pencil tips tapping lightly on the paper as squares filled with Xs and Os.
Crane won the first match easily.
"Again," Caitlyn said, narrowing her eyes with determination.
They went again.
And again.
Finally, after several rounds and a few stubborn glares, Caitlyn managed to win one.
She smiled, a genuine grin spreading across her face. "That was fun."
Crane nodded. "Okay. Next game."
But before she could ask what he meant, the real Crane subtly replaced himself with a dream-formed copy.
The moment passed seamlessly—Caitlyn none the wiser.
Meanwhile, the real Crane drifted out of her dreamscape.
————————————
Now back in his astral form, Crane floated idly in Caitlyn's room.
I'm bored, he thought, drifting aimlessly.
I'm supposed to be the master of fear… not love.
He paused.
Not that I hate it. But I could be doing so much more.
An idea sparked.
His expression shifted into something sharper—more amused.
Without another thought, Crane slipped through the wall and soared across Piltover, heading straight for one of the enforcers' operational buildings.
Once inside, he floated through the halls unnoticed, slipping into locked rooms and past security systems like smoke.
He eventually found what he was looking for—a file cabinet deep in the records room.
He phased his head straight into the cabinet, shifting through stacks of documents until he found the one that made him grin.
Housing records. Addresses. Blueprints. Schedules.
For once, it wasn't a crooked smile—it was genuine.
Crane slowly pulled his head back out of the drawer, excitement flickering in his eyes.
He'd memorized most of the Enforcers' addresses just from those files.
Then he left—slipping through the city like a shadow, a ghost in the wind.
He arrived at the first enforcer's home and crept silently into their dreams.
With a single touch, he twisted the dreamscape, warping it into a violent nightmare: the undercity rising in flames, swarming the pristine streets of Piltover, slaughtering fellow enforcers in cold blood.
Screams echoed. Blood painted the cobblestone.
Panic ruled.
Crane stepped out of the dream with a wide grin.
Now that's sure to stir up some paranoia.
He moved to the next house.
And the next.
House by house, dream by dream, he sowed terror in the hearts of the city's peacekeepers—visions of chaos, betrayal, and slaughter.
He was tireless, methodical.
Like Santa Claus, he went door to door through the night.
But instead of leaving presents…
He left nightmares of death.
Of comrades torn apart.
Of the undercity rising up to claim what it was owed.
——————————
The days blurred into a rhythm.
Each morning, Crane rose early, making his way to the lab to meet Singed.
The two of them worked with an unsettling synchronicity, delving into all manner of experiments.
They spent hours dissecting mice, studying the effects of Shimmer.
It was a delicate balance between scientific curiosity and unrestrained madness, but it was a collaboration that pushed the boundaries of what was considered human.
Crane would then break off to spend hours hunched over his own workbench, sketching exoskeleton schematics and designing new forms of prosthetics—sleek, intimidating, and terrifyingly efficient.
And when night fell, his true work began.
He slipped from his body like a shadow unfurling, drifting through the undercity and into Piltover.
Every night, without fail, he visited Vi and Caitlyn's dreams.
With Vi, it was more battles, more confrontations—dreams that tested her strength and left her confused when she woke.
With Caitlyn, it was walks through the undercity, quiet games of tic-tac-toe, and the occasional strange moment that tugged at her emotions.
But for the enforcers, there was no warmth, no ambiguity.
Each one was visited in the dark.
Each one dreamed of the under-city's fury rising from below—streets choked in fog, enforcers dragged into alleys, comrades slaughtered while they watched, helpless.
The nightmares spread like a virus, infecting their morale.
Whispers of unrest began to surface.
Tension tightened between the under-city and topside.
And Crane smiled.
One full week passed, each day perfectly calculated, each night meticulously seeded with fear and fascination.
He was weaving something bigger—and no one even knew it yet.
———————————-
"What the fuck's going on topside to get the enforcers all riled up?" Smeech barked, slamming his hand against the grimy table.
"Times of peace makes them uneasy," Silco replied calmly, lighting a cigar with his usual steady hand.
"They assume we're planning something. I suggest we let them stay afraid—and keep our heads down."
Smeech sneered. "Easy for you to say. You ship in drugs and vanish. Some of us are neck-deep in the real work."
"I agree with Silco," Renni chimed in, arms crossed. "We didn't start anything. And if they're on edge already, provoking them now is suicide."
Smeech scowled. "First, the organ base gets wiped. I had a major deal lined up. Now this? Anyone even figure out who hit the base?"
Silco exhaled a thin trail of smoke and leaned back in his chair.
"All we heard was someone in a mask and a straw hat walking away from the wreck. Beyond that? It's your mess to clean."
Smeech grunted, clearly unsatisfied, but said nothing.
The room fell into uneasy silence, the tension thick as the smoke curling in the air.
———————-
I hate using pencils