Crane sat back in his cell, cuffs still locked around his wrists, leaning against the cold stone wall.
His mask lay discarded in the corner, right where the enforcers had left it after tearing it off.
Thankfully, he'd already changed his face before the docks.
He let out a long yawn, lazily covering his mouth with one hand, his eyes half-lidded.
The heavy door creaked open again.
In walked Heimerdinger, his tiny footsteps soft against the stone floor.
Crane blinked. "Another visitor? I'm flattered."
Heimerdinger gave him a sharp look.
"Does being in a jail cell make you tired? Actually—never mind. That's not what I'm here for."
He stepped closer, ears twitching slightly as his brows furrowed.
"I'm here because you claimed responsibility for the hospital tragedy."
Heimerdinger's eyes drifted to the mask in the corner of the cell.
"The judge said you want to be known," Heimerdinger said quietly.
"Are you really so desperate for attention you'd risk your own well-being?"
Scarecrow tilted his head.
"I don't care about attention," he said at first.
Then, after a pause—his voice quieter, more honest:
"…Not exactly."
He looked down at his cuffs, then back up.
"I care about meaning. About being remembered. If they fear me, they won't forget me."
"I want people to know there's a reason behind their fear."
"Fear?" Heimerdinger echoed, wary.
"Yes."
Scarecrow's voice softened, almost reverent.
"Fear without form is meaningless. I want to give it shape. Purpose."
He leaned back, his head thudding lightly against the wall.
"I don't plan to stay in the spotlight. This is a one-time thing."
A pause.
"Soon, I'll disappear. Work from the sidelines—quietly. As I was meant to."
Heimerdinger studied him a long moment, expression unreadable.
"You won't have the luxury of disappearing," he said at last.
"Actions have consequences. I think it's time you felt them."
Scarecrow smiled, slow and wide, revealing rows of shark-like teeth.
"Why the sidelines?" Heimerdinger asked. "Don't you crave the spotlight?"
Scarecrow yanked at the chains with sudden energy.
"Because you never know when a random stranger will throw literal time at you!"
Heimerdinger blinked, confused. "…Has that happened before?"
"No," Scarecrow said casually. "Not yet. But it will."
Heimerdinger narrowed his eyes. "Yet? Will? Are you working with magic? Seeing the future, perhaps?"
Scarecrow scoffed. "Magic? No way."
He leaned forward, voice low and proud.
"I'm all biology."
Heimerdinger's eyes narrowed. "I think this meeting is over."
"Then go," Scarecrow said, lifting his cuffed hands slightly. "And tell the Council to prepare my sentence."
He smiled beneath the mask.
"Oh—and make sure the reporters are there. I'd like an audience."
Heimerdinger turned without a word, stepping out. But just before the door shut, he paused.
"Any motive besides attention?" he asked.
"Hate? Revenge?"
Scarecrow met his gaze through the gap in the door and slowly shook his head.
"I don't hate Piltover."
A pause.
"I just happened to wander here… and I'll happily stay."
The door shut with a solid, final clang.
———————————-
Now alone, Scarecrow leaned back against the wall, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.
Actually…
I think I'm more than biology.
He stared at the cuffs binding his wrists.
Being an incubus is probably more magical than I'd like to admit.
He exhaled, slow and quiet.
I'm not meeting the Council—not really. That would put them in danger.
I saw it in Heimerdinger's eyes.
He's the judge.
This conversation? It was my trial.
Scarecrow flexed his fingers, letting the blood circulate back into his hands. Then he leaned forward, jaw tightening.
He bit down hard on the chain linking his left cuff.
Crack.
"Agh."
He let out a low grunt as a couple of his teeth snapped.
Blood welled in his mouth, bitter and metallic.
Stupid. Too impulsive.
But he didn't stop.
Instead, he bit the lock itself, tongue pressing against the cold metal as if testing its shape.
And while doing so—he began to change.
One of his broken teeth writhed, reshaping in his gum—elongating, twisting unnaturally.
His jaw shifted slightly as the tooth grew longer, thinner, narrowing to a sliver with a distinct purpose.
With unsettling calm, he guided it toward the lock, sliding the sharp edge into the keyhole like a makeshift pick.
He chuckled softly through the blood in his mouth.
Click!
The cuff on his left wrist popped open.
Grinning, Scarecrow brought his freed hand over to the other cuff, intending to transform it too—reshape his fingers into another tool.
He stared at his palm, watching the skin ripple with potential.
Then, mid-shift, he blinked.
"Idiot," he muttered.
Rather than bother reshaping the left hand into another key, he simply shrunk his right hand.
The skin tightened. Bones contracted with a wet crackle.
And the cuff slid off with a clink, falling to the ground.
Scarecrow flexed both wrists and wiped his bloodied mouth on his sleeve.
"All that effort for nothing."
He snorted.
"But hey—practice makes perfect."
Bang!
An enforcer smacked the metal door with the back of his hand, not even bothering to look through the viewing slit.
"Hey! Quiet down in there!"
"Kill yourself!" Scarecrow shouted cheerfully.
He turned, slipped on his mask, and adjusted it with a little flourish.
From the hallway, the enforcer grumbled, still flipping through his newspaper.
"If you weren't locked up, I'd mess you up."
Scarecrow stepped right up to the door, voice muffled slightly by the steel but no less smug.
"You're a terrible enforcer. Not even watching me. That's sloppy."
He leaned in, voice low and amused.
"You have no idea what I'm doing in here, do you?"
Scarecrow backed up to the far wall, crouched—
And charged.
With a whip of his tail, the reinforced door crashed off its hinges like it weighed nothing.
Boom!
The door slammed into the enforcer, knocking him flat—his legs trapped underneath.
"Agh—what the f—"
Scarecrow leapt, landing squarely on the metal slab, crushing the man's legs beneath it.
"AAAH!" the enforcer screamed, voice ricocheting down the cold hallway.
"Help! Someone! He's out!"
Scarecrow crouched on the door, tilting his head slowly.
"See? Told you. Sloppy."
Footsteps pounded from down the hall—getting louder fast.
a group of enforcers appeared.
"He's out! Scarecrow's loose!" one of them shouted.
Scarecrow glanced at them, then down at the squirming man pinned beneath the door.
"Damn. Gotta scram."
He paused.
"But before that—one more thing."
He jumped. Hard.
CRACK.
The enforcer shrieked in agony, flailing under the weight.
Scarecrow smiled.
"Make it two."
He jumped again.
"AAAGH!"
The enforcer's voice cracked—pure pain.
Scarecrow glanced back at the oncoming squad. Close.
"Actually… make it three."
He jumped one last time.
There was a wet crunch—something between a squish and a snap.
He looked down.
"Mashed potatoes?"
A pause.
"Nope. Just your leg. My bad."
He turned to flee—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Scarecrow's body jerked as three bullets tore into him.
He collapsed backward, sprawled on the fallen door in a spreading pool of blood.
The enforcers slowed, weapons raised, unsure. One of them looked down at their pinned comrade.
BANG!
They all flinched and turned left—just in time to see another enforcer casually lower his pistol.
"What the hell, Fen!"
The shy-looking enforcer shrugged, holstering his weapon.
"Sorry. I just… felt left out. Everyone else got to shoot."
A beat.
"Worth it," he mumbled.
Heavy boots echoed as more enforcers flooded the hall.
They came to a stop around the grisly scene: Scarecrow's motionless, bloodied body draped over the door… and the still-screaming enforcer crushed beneath it.
An older officer stepped forward, arms crossed.
"What are you all standing around for? Help the poor man up."
She pointed—not at Scarecrow, but the enforcer pinned under the door.
"Right on it, Officer Grayson," the shy one said, already moving.
Fen leaned down and grabbed Scarecrow to pull him off the door—
"Agh! You're touching me! You're touching me! You're a dude—not even a woman—gross!"
!!! Every enforcer jolted back in surprise, hands flying to their weapons.
"Don't shoot," Grayson barked, holding out her hand. "Hold it!"
But Scarecrow was already moving. In a blink, he latched onto Fen, dragging him up as a makeshift hostage.
"Wait—are you a woman?" Scarecrow asked, squinting, voice half-genuine, half-taunting.
"I'm Fen," the enforcer said stiffly.
Scarecrow grinned wide behind his mask.
"Oh wow, really?! And what gender is Fen?"
He laughed, mock-sweet. "Because you've got very soft wrists."
The enforcers looked at each other, unsure what to do.
Grayson stepped forward. "What are your demands?" she asked, trying to keep things steady.
"Shut up!!!" Scarecrow shrieked. "I'm! Not! Talking to you!"
His tone veered off a cliff—wild, unpredictable.
Then, more softly, turning back to his hostage:
"So, Fen… how about I call you Fe?" His voice dipped into a disturbing gentleness. "You're a woman, right?"
Fen blinked, deadpan.
"Yes. I have a dick and balls."
"AAGH!!" Scarecrow screamed. "I'm going to kill myself!"
Without another word, he dragged Fen with him and dived out the window.
————————
I don't know why I did the whole Fen thing.
If I had more time I'll change it but It doesn't matter much.