Crane ran, boots slapping the wet undercity stone, laughter bubbling out of him like a madman in a carnival funhouse.
"God, I'm awful," he wheezed to himself between giggles. "Truly depraved. A menace. A nightmare."
He doubled over, catching his breath.
"All those lives… gone. I'm basically a war criminal!"
Then he paused.
His grin faltered slightly.
"…Though, technically, they were criminals. And murderers. And thieves. So maybe I just did society a favor…"
He shook his head violently, slapping his cheeks with both hands.
"No! Don't backpedal! Be evil! Be evil!"
He struck a dramatic pose in the middle of the alley, arms wide like an opera villain delivering his final act.
Then he looked up.
The next organ trader base loomed overhead—nestled on the rooftop of a crooked building, its windows flickering with sickly orange light.
A rusted fire escape snaked up the side like a metal spine.
Crane tilted his head.
"Well. That's inconvenient."
He sat down on a crate nearby, resting his chin in one hand.
"…Though I did cause the death of fifty-three innocent people in a hospital," he murmured thoughtfully.
From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small wrapped candy, inspected it with a vague smile.
"That was pretty evil of me."
Then, as if rewarding himself for the memory, he returned the candy to his pocket without eating it.
Instead, he reached into his stomach cavity and pulled out a crinkled balloon.
With delicate precision, he inflated it—not with air, but with fear toxin.
A faint hiss. The balloon expanded, twitching slightly in the flickering alley light.
He let it go.
The balloon floated upward, wobbling through the air until it nudged against the cracked window of the top floor.
Crane picked up a loose rock, aimed lazily, and hurled it.
Pop!
Fear gas sprayed into the open crack.
Crane stood and cupped a hand to his ear.
From above, he heard it: sharp gasps, thudding footsteps, and then—screams. Hysterical, garbled, chaotic.
He grinned. "There it is."
Then he waited by the building's front door… and waited.
And waited.
"…Seriously, what's taking them so l—"
It clicked.
"Oh. They're on the top floor. Why the fuck would they come down?"
He pushed open the door with a creak and stepped inside.
"I dunno, I just thought I'd have this cool moment where I surprise them," he muttered to himself.
"And don't swear too much—it loses its punch."
With a tired sigh, he started up the stairs, muttering all the way.
"Did I just censor myself?"
He reached the floor just beneath the rooftop—and stopped.
A small group of survivors were scattered across the hallway. Some leaned against the walls, drenched in sweat.
Others lay on the floor, wheezing, eyes wide and bloodshot. The fear toxin had already done its work.
One man, slumped by the stairwell, lifted his head.
His hand fumbled for the gun at his belt. He raised it—shaking—and fired.
Bang!
Crane didn't flinch. Instead, a clean hole opened in the side of his neck.
The bullet passed straight through with a whistle and smacked into the wall behind him.
The flesh closed a moment later with a slick, wet sound.
Crane blinked.
Then smiled.
"Did you see how I dodged the bullet?" he said, eyes bright, voice giddy.
He strolled toward the gunman, stepping over groaning bodies.
"I mean—I would've survived it no doubt. But still! I just made a hole and let it pass through. No pain at all."
He crouched down and picked up the gun. Putting it in his pocket.
The man wheezed, barely able to lift his head.
"Why fight like this…?" he rasped. "Fight like real men. Face to face…"
Crane raised a brow.
"I'm face to face with you right now. Let's fight."
He grabbed the man by the shirt, dragged him upright, and slammed him against the wall.
Then, without hesitation, he started punching—once, twice, three times.
Each hit landed with a dull, wet thud. The man groaned, limp but conscious.
Crane's strikes weren't fueled by anger or desperation—they were casual, even curious, intrigued by the novelty of fighting someone face to face.
After a few more hits, he stopped—panting lightly, eyes drifting over the other twitching bodies in the hallway.
"…Huh. Not as fun as I thought it'd be."
He stepped over to another figure slumped on the ground, barely conscious, and crouched beside him.
"What's your happiest memory?" Crane asked, tilting his head.
The man blinked slowly, dazed. "I'm… I'm sitting down, and my mother is telling me a st—"
"Good, good," Crane cut in, already bored. "Now—what's the worst thing you've ever done?"
The man's face tensed. "I… I killed a kid."
Crane stood abruptly, face darkening.
"Oh," he muttered. "Oh."
He drew the stolen gun and aimed it at the man's head. "Killing you guys makes me the good guy."
Click.
Nothing happened.
Crane blinked.
"…Oh, I'm dumb."
He cocked the weapon, resetting it.
Then he froze.
His tone shifted—mock-serious, as if giving a lecture.
"I'm going to be the bigger person and let you live."
He kept the gun trained on the man.
"Just don't try to be good. Just change your profession. Or I'll kill you."
Behind him, the beaten man he'd been pummeling earlier gave out. His body tipped forward and hit the floor with a solid—
Thud!
Startled, Crane spasmed and accidentally pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The bullet struck the man on the ground dead center.
Crane blinked down at the body.
"…Dangnambit."
He dropped the gun and kicked it toward the corpse's head with a scowl.
"Stupid gun. You killed him."
His eyes caught a cracked window nearby. Slowly, he brought a hand to his chin in the shape of a checkmark.
Ding!
An idea lit behind his eyes.
Crane slung one of the bodies over his shoulder and dragged it to the window. Without hesitation, he hurled it out.
He leaned out, watching it land in a crumpled heap below.
From the corner of his eye—movement. A figure slipping into shadow.
He narrowed his eyes. "Weird."
He grabbed another body and lobbed it out.
Thunk!
Then—a noise.
Crane turned like he was going for a third corpse… but immediately whipped back toward the window, poking his head out.
He saw them. People creeping closer, trying to blend into the dark.
"I saw that!" he yelled.
The figures froze, gripping their guns.
"Why are you guys here? This business is now closed!" Crane called, gesturing toward the organ trader corpses.
Someone stepped from the shadows, bold and smug.
"You fetch a lot of money!" he shouted up.
"NoI don't!" Crane shouted back.
"You're surrounded. We've got this building locked down. Resist, and we kill you."
Crane paused.
Then grinned.
"Sweet!"
The men below looked at each other.
"…Sweet?"
"Sweet!" Crane echoed, gleeful.
He grabbed another body and flung it out the window.
RATATATAT!
Gunfire exploded as the corpse was riddled with bullets mid-air—mistaken for him.
The body burst on impact, releasing fear toxin.
Most of it dispersed in the air from the gunfire, but enough hit the ground in a heavy puff, sending waves of panic through the surrounding thugs.
"Masks on! Move in!"
The group backed off, quickly donning gas masks before storming into the building.
Crane, peeking through the window, frowned.
"No fair—they had prep time."
Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
"Who gave them all gas masks? These guys don't look like enforcers…"
Thinking fast, he dragged a body to the far side of the room.
More footsteps—closer now.
Crane sprinted.
He bolted straight for the window and leapt out, body in tow.
"What's up, danger!" he shouted as he dove.
The corpse slammed into another body below.
Crane landed hard—knees crashing down on the last corpse in the pile. Both legs snapped with a wet crunch.
He didn't scream. Just wheezed out a "Ughh!" before his legs began knitting back together with sickening speed.
He staggered upright and took off running into the alley.
From above:
"He jumped! He's down there!"
Gunfire rained from the windows, bullets chewing through bricks and trash as Crane disappeared around a corner.
One of the men pushed through the crowd at the window.
"Move aside! If he survived the fall, so can we. He just used the bodies to break his fall."
He jumped.
.
.
.
SPLOTCH!
He missed the pile entirely. Silence followed.
The rest exchanged looks, then started rushing back down the stairs.
——————————-
Meanwhile, Crane sprinted deeper into the undercity.
I hate guns, he thought bitterly.
He turned a corner—
BANG!
A bullet tore through his neck.
He collapsed, face-first onto the concrete, gurgling as his muscles twitched.
From somewhere nearby, a voice sneered:
"I knew they didn't have the skills to take care of one person."
Crane forced his head up, blood trickling from the hole in his neck.
A woman stepped forward, aiming a pistol right between his eyes.
"Any last words?" she asked coolly.
Crane rasped out, "Sevika!"
She faltered. "How—?"
"Dirt attack!" he yelled, scooping up a handful of grime and flinging it at her face as he scrambled to his feet.
The dirt hit her eyes. She cursed and fired—too late.
Crane had already rolled aside, dodging the shot.
He lunged, grabbing her face with both hands, releasing a concentrated puff of fear gas into her eyes.
Sevika screamed, stumbling back as she kicked him away.
She hit the wall, slapped a gas mask over her face, and readied her gun.
Crane, panting, heard voices echoing from the alley.
"The shot came from this way!"
The others had caught up—and now they were staring straight at Crane.
Sevika, breathing heavily behind her mask, glanced around at the others.
Her vision started to distort. She remembered the stories—how Crane's toxin had driven doctors to madness.
So she did the only thing that made sense in that moment: she knocked herself out cold.
Crane blinked in surprise. "That's cool. I never would've thought to do that… I'm lying—I probably would."
The moment shattered. Gunfire burst through the air. Crane bolted from the alley, and the chase began.
He tore through crowded streets, shots ringing out behind him.
A bullet slammed into his shoulder, another grazed his head. And his stomach.
Damage there was easy to recover from.
"Ahh—move!" he shouted, shoving civilians aside as he ran.
As he sprinted, he released a thick haze of yellow fear toxin.
He knew they had masks—but the toxin wasn't for them. It was for the crowd.
Screams erupted as the gas spread. People panicked and scattered, creating chaos and confusion in the streets.
The hunters faltered, momentarily blinded and blocked by the stampede.
The distraction worked.
Crane slipped into another crowd and began morphing. His form shrank, bones compacting, organs shifting.
He stopped releasing the gas, his body now small and wiry—unassuming.
But as he moved, the tools hidden in his body jutted out—needles, scalpels, syringes all protruding slightly from his skin.
He walked quietly out of the crowd, casting a glance over his shoulder.
The pursuers were still there, scouring the area.
"Where did he go?" one barked. "Why'd the gas stop? Everyone split up—find him!"
They scattered, unaware he'd already slipped away.
Crane turned, opened the nearest door, and stepped inside.
Once it shut behind him, he stretched—his form lengthening, organs shifting back into place. Taller now, he let out a faint grin.
"Works every time… albeit that was the first." His voice raspy.
A soft thud hit his shoulder.
A plastic ball bounced off him.
"Powder, come over here," Vi called, narrowing her eyes. Powder stood frozen, holding a toy gun.
"Now," Vi said firmly.
Crane glanced around, realizing where he was.
The arcade.
Vi. Powder. Mylo. Claggor.
All staring at him.
He coughed, deepening his voice to a gravelly rasp.
"Don't be afraid. I am merely a humble chemist," he said, voice dry and ragged.
Vi stepped in front of Powder, protective. "Yeah? And I'm a fistsist. See? I can make up words too."
Powder leaned up and whispered to her, "Chemist is a real word…"
————————
This summer im going to change my style.
Blue,Yellow and pink, all my clothes will be those colors.
I hate Purple.