Pushing himself off the ground, Crane woke up, still in costume.
It's actually pretty comfortable to sleep in, he thought.
He pushed open the door and made his way into the lab. Still wearing the costume, he walked over to the workbench, grabbed a notebook, and started writing.
⸻
Let's see. My powers are:
- Regeneration:
Cuts and injuries heal fast—really fast. I've regenerated fingers, internal injuries, and even parts of my body.
- Shapeshifting:
So far, I've created an extra finger and removed my mouth completely for a while. Just for fun. Can likely create other limbs with enough focus.
- Pheromones:
I release love/lust pheromones naturally, but with some tinkering, I can now control and change the effect. I've managed to convert pheromones into gas or liquid form.
- Laughing gas:
Tried to create a joy pheromone. Accidentally made uncontrollable laughter instead.
- Fear toxin:
Wanted to make fear. So I did.
- Soap:
Nothing wrong with being clean.
- Astral Projection / Dream Manipulation?
When I sleep, I can project my consciousness—floating around, completely invisible to everyone. It might be tied to pheromone use; my arm changes color when I activate them and can influence emotions. I've also found I can enter dreams… and manipulate them.
- Body:
Can convert pheromones into various liquids within my body… hmm, maybe this should be under "Pheromones" instead. Will reorganize later.
⸻
Crane paused, tapping the end of the pencil against the page. His eyes narrowed slightly, deep in thought.
I've never really tried to get stronger. Never trained. I rely on instinct, regeneration, fear.
But how would an incubus even train?
Crane paused, hearing footsteps approaching the lab.
Without a second thought, he ripped the page from the notebook and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing like it was nothing unusual.
He turned calmly toward the noise just as Singed entered, stopping in the doorway.
The chemist's eyes flicked to the burlap mask, then slowly to the ragged shawl draped over Crane's shoulders.
Crane gave a casual shrug. "Like my new look?"
Singed blinked once. "Why?"
"To be scary—you know, cause some fear. I want people to look at me and feel goosebumps," Crane said, adjusting the burlap mask.
Singed sat at his workbench, already tinkering with a vial of shimmer. "So your gimmick is fear."
"Everyone lives in fear down here," Singed added, his tone matter-of-fact, not unkind—just honest.
Crane didn't respond. He moved to his side of the lab and quietly joined in the work, the thought hanging in his mind like a weight.
——————————————————
After hours of quiet work, Crane returned to his room.
He closed the door behind him, the click echoing in the dim space. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing.
He's right, Crane thought bitterly. I'm just a gimmick. Everyone already lives in fear down here. If fear's the baseline, then what am I?
He sat down, elbows on his knees, hands folded under his chin.
I need to stand out. I need to be… stronger.
His mind circled back to the question that had been nagging at him all day.
How does an incubus train? How do I evolve?
Then it clicked. So simple, so obvious it almost made him laugh.
"…How could I be so stupid? It's sex," he muttered, facepalming hard enough to sting.
Suddenly energized, he shot up and began pacing the room with manic excitement.
"Incubi are sex demons—they get energy from sex!" he said, gesturing wildly to no one in particular. "That's their whole thing!"
His pacing sped up.
"I just found a way to get stronger!"
Without thinking, he dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups. "Gotta train—build up strength—wait a minute…"
He froze mid-rep, blinked, then slowly pushed himself back up to his feet.
"…I don't need to work out anymore. I'll just have sex."
He dusted himself off like he'd solved all of life's problems.
"Now… if I remember correctly, Incubi can either physically have sex or just have sex in the woman's dreams," he said, nodding to himself like a professor reciting textbook knowledge.
Then he paused.
"I don't know about physically… it feels wrong," he muttered, frowning slightly.
He stopped pacing. The air in the room suddenly felt heavier.
"…Does consent exist in dreams?"
.
.
.
He slapped himself, hard enough to shake the thought loose.
"What the hell am I even thinking?" he muttered, pacing again, more frantically this time. "Why the heck would I want people to fear me?"
He leaned back against the wall, head thunking lightly against it.
"Why would I want to be a villain in the first place?" he said, voice quieter now. "It's not fun at all."
His hands trembled slightly as he brought one to his mouth.
Click.
A faint hiss escaped between his lips as he released the laughing gas into his own system.
A beat of silence.
Then the first giggle escaped.
It started small—light, almost unhinged—and then it built, bubbling out of his chest like something involuntary.
Crane slid down the wall, laughing alone in the dim room, the sound echoing hollow off the concrete walls.
Not because anything was funny, but because it was better than thinking.
Oh yeah, he remembered now—still laughing, still clutching his sides like the world had just told him the best joke.
It was freedom.
The freedom not to be afraid.
Still grinning, he brought his hand to his mouth again—this time, releasing a different gas.
The fear toxin hissed out softly, curling into his lungs.
He welcomed it.
The laughter died.
Suddenly, the room was full of crows—flapping wildly, black wings slicing through the air.
He winced, ducked, but they were only in his mind.
Then bats. Hundreds of them, clinging to the walls, to his shoulders, crawling up his spine.
His fear of bats had always been with him, an unshakable presence.
He couldn't trace it—didn't know where it began—but it was there, buried deep in his mind.
He blinked.
And the entire expanse of Zaun unfolded before him. Twisting alleys, flickering lights, mechanical limbs moving in the chaos, clouds of toxic fumes swirling in every direction.
A place so alive with disorder that even with his knowledge of psychology—his understanding of the mind—he couldn't make sense of it.
He couldn't understand it.
And that realization… that lack of control over something so wild, so alien to him, scared him more than anything.
Zaun, with all its broken pieces and twisted logic, was a puzzle he'd never solve.
And that scared him.
Another blink.
A guillotine stood in the corner of his room, gleaming in the dim light. It hadn't been there a moment ago.
He stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest, pressing into the corner as if the walls might shield him from the suffocating terror.
His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, the weight of the fear pressing down on him like a physical force.
He'd escaped death once.
But as the guillotine loomed, as the bats continued to swarm in his vision, he didn't know if he could do it again.
He didn't know if he could survive another encounter with death, with fear itself.
And that uncertainty—that weakness—was what made him desperate.
It wasn't enough just to survive.
Not anymore.
He needed to become stronger.
Stronger than his fears, stronger than anyone else's.
He needed to conquer them—control them. And in doing so, he'd make others fear him.
Make them feel what he felt.
To be a force no one could ever dare to challenge.
Fear was his weapon.
Fear was his strength.
He would make others tremble.
Make them see him as more than just a man.
He would make them fear the very idea of him.
————————————
I feel like he needed a clearer goal.
Don't worry about the consent part, it won't get dark.
Remember guys always follow consent.