Crane brought a hand up, vaguely pointing over his shoulder.
"I should be going. I've got something to test out."
Jayce blinked.
"Test out? You're making something new?"
Crane was already walking backward toward the balcony.
"Eh, no. I was just talking to talk."
Jayce frowned.
"…What?"
Crane stepped onto the balcony.
"Okay, bye."
And with that, he climbed onto the roof.
——————————-
Crane walked along the rooftop, deep in thought.
Okay, this is good, he thought. The cannon's starting. The only thing I'm worried about… is how I fit into it.
He jumped to another rooftop, landing lightly.
I think it's a no-brainer I'll survive… I think.
What is my peak?
Can I kill a man in broad daylight and get away with it?
He muttered aloud,
"I actually think I can."
Then, without hesitation, Crane dropped into an alley below.
He kept walking—now aimlessly—until the sharp smell of salt hit him. The docks.
If I'm going to murder someone in broad daylight, he thought, I can't look like me.
He pressed a hand against his stomach, feeling the familiar thrum beneath.
I mean… I have my mask.
But I want to use my tail. My red tail. That's completely noticeable.
Crane sat down at the edge of the dock, staring out at the dark water.
Boats drifted in and out. Workers hauled crates off the decks, shouting directions at each other.
Then, he spotted something—someone.
A fish-like man with gills and webbed fingers, hoisting boxes as if they weighed nothing.
Crane tilted his head. Then smiled.
"That's it," he whispered.
He turned and slipped back into the alley.
Without hesitation, his body began to change.
His red skin flushed to a deep blue. His features warped—more streamlined, more aquatic.
His tail reshaped, thinner and finned, matching the rest of the disguise.
His silhouette blurred into something just slightly uncanny—fishlike,
Then, with a small grunt, Crane reached into his own stomach and pulled out a familiar shape: his scarecrow mask.
Still damp, still foul.
He followed it with a bundle of filthy, tattered clothes. He held up a shirt with two fingers, inspected the holes, and gave a small nod.
"Ah. Much different."
Crane dressed, slipped the mask under his arm, and walked back out into the sunlight—toward the dock.
He moved through the crowd, weaving past workers hauling crates.
A few glanced his way, but said nothing. Not their business. Not their job.
But it was the job of the guards.
Two of them stepped forward, guns raised.
"Stop. You can't proceed past this point," one said firmly.
Crane lifted a finger and pointed lazily at their guns. "And what if I do?"
"Then we'll stop you by force—and call the enforcers," the other replied.
Crane tilted his head. "You could do that," he said. "But what if you fail to stop me?"
Silently, he released a whisper of fear toxin into the air.
The guards tensed. Something about him was wrong. Off. Their stances shifted.
Crane smiled. "What if I just kill you? What then?"
Fingers hovered on triggers. One heartbeat. Two.
"Relax! I'm just joking!" Crane said loudly, throwing his arms up with a grin.
Bang!
The shot rang out.
Crane's head snapped back. His body crumpled to the ground, mask falling beside him with a dull thud.
Everyone at the dock froze. Crates dropped. Heads turned in shock.
The left guard held up a hand. "Everything's alright! Get back to work!"
Workers hesitated, glancing at the body… then nodded, slowly returning to their tasks. They still wanted to get paid.
The left guard turned to the right, eyes wide. "Why did you shoot?!"
The right one stood pale, finger still on the trigger. "He surprised me," he muttered, chest heaving. "I panicked."
"Panic is a normal reaction," a voice said from the ground. "I don't blame you."
Both guards whipped their guns toward the body.
"Ho—!"
"Would you like to see my mask?" the voice cut in.
Crane laughed as he sat up and pulled the Scarecrow mask over his face.
"It's alright," he said, voice muffled and eerie. "I don't need your consent."
Suddenly, his tail coiled and launched him off the ground—slam—straight into the left guard's face, headbutting him so hard his body flew back and crashed into the side of the boat.
Boom!
The right guard, panicking again, fired.
Bullets tore through Scarecrow's shoulder—but he didn't care.
He surged forward, grabbed the man by the face.
"Breathe."
A burst of toxin flooded directly down the man's throat.
The guard spasmed, eyes wide with raw, primal fear as the chemical overtook his brain.
Scarecrow tilted his head, watching the guard convulse with wide, terrified eyes.
"…Now that's disappointing."
He looked down and kicked at the floor lazily. "Always the same thing."
Screams echoed behind him—feet pounding the dock, people fleeing in terror.
He glanced back.
"Background noise."
Turning away from the chaos, he looked at the boat. "Now… what's in here?"
He stepped aboard, boots thudding on the wood. The guard he'd headbutted was slumped against the railing, dead.
From the corner of his eye, Scarecrow spotted shadows shifting—crew members ducking behind crates, trying to stay hidden.
"I'm not here to kill you," he said.
Then paused.
"…Okay, that was a lie."
He stepped forward, scanning the deck.
"But I am interested in where this boat came from. Geography's not my strong suit."
.
.
.
Silence.
Scarecrow folded his arms, waiting. Just breathing.
Then, softly:
"Whoever talks first…" He raised a hand, wiggling his fingers.
"I'll spare."
"Bilgewater!" someone shouted, stepping out from behind a crate.
"This boat's from Bilgewater, sir," said a woman with a peg leg, fidgeting nervously with her fingers.
"Sir?" Scarecrow muttered, touching his face. "No, no…"
He threw his arms wide.
"Call me Scarecrow, master of fear and despair!"
The woman tensed, nearly snapping her fingers from the way she twisted them. "Okay… Scarecrow, master of fear and despair," she said timidly.
"Again!" he barked, slamming his tail into the wood. It cracked.
She flinched. "O-Okay, Scarecrow, master of fear and d—!"
"What's in these crates?" he interrupted, already tossing one lazily in the air with his tail.
The woman bit her lip. "It's… candy."
Scarecrow froze mid-motion.
"…Candy?"
She nodded, shrinking in on herself.
"Oh, barnacle," he muttered, disappointed, letting the crate fall with a thud.
"And here I thought you were doing something important."
He turned to look at her. "You guys say oh barnacle, right? I was trying to be regional. I usually say oh darn, but—y'know—Bilgewater."
The woman gave an awkward shrug.
Scarecrow stared at her a moment longer, then nodded thoughtfully.
"You know, I'm from Bilgewater too," he said—blatantly lying.
He leaned in close and whispered, "Just don't tell anyone. I've got a character to maintain."
She nodded quickly, too scared to question it.
Then—footsteps. Heavy ones. Coming from the dock.
Scarecrow turned and saw them: enforcers. A whole squad. Guns raised. Blocking every exit.
"You are surrounded!" one of them barked. "Surrender or be taken into custody by force!"
Scarecrow turned to the woman beside him and gestured vaguely. "I think he's talking to you."
She swallowed. "I think he's actually talking about you, Scarecrow, master of fear and despair," she blurted.
"Oh, really, he was talking to me?" he said, mock offended. "Wow. Thanks for clearing that up. I'm truly—truly—grateful."
He raised both hands and strolled off the boat, stepping calmly into the ring of enforcers.
"Just take me," he said, tone flat. "I would've fought you. It would've been really cool. A memory you'd never forget."
He paused in the center of them, lowering his hands slowly.
"But I'm not in the mood anymore… because someone just had to be an idiot and ruin it."
The enforcers exchanged glances, unsure what to make of him. Finally, one stepped forward.
"Alrighty then. Let's take you in."
"Yeah, yeah—just hang me already."
The enforcer slipped cuffs onto his wrists. "We're not going to do that… at least, not before you're sentenced."
As they started walking, Scarecrow let out an exaggerated groan. "Please hang me! I'm asking nicely!"
"My name is Scarecrow, and I give consent to the hanging!" he called out, raising his cuffed hands dramatically.
One of the enforcers sighed. "We don't have the power to decide that."
——————————-
Meanwhile…
Jayce leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pen.
"Hmm…"
He tapped it against his notes.
"I think I'll go down," he muttered.
…
…
…
"Tomorrow," he added, now lying comfortably in bed with his arms behind his head.
—————————————
Sandman is a fucking disappointment!
Probably one of the most disappointing Lego characters.