"So, what are you actually planning to make?" Jayce asked, flipping open his notebook. "Or did you just call it a secret because you don't have a plan?"
Crane paused, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.
"I've been thinking about making something to help people with disabilities," he said.
Jayce looked up, mildly surprised. "Anything specific?"
Crane shrugged. "Maybe something to help with movement—like a mechanical limb that's cheaper than the ones on the market. If that doesn't work out, I'll just make toys."
Jayce raised an eyebrow. "Toys?"
Crane didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the window, his expression distant.
He thought about his past life—how he used to build animatronics. Crude, but they worked. He could apply the same mechanics now: joints, movement patterns. Just refined.
Less show, more function.
He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table, lost in thought.
"It's easier to build for fun than for survival," Crane murmured. "But maybe I can do both."
Outside, the sun dipped lower, bathing the workshop in a warm, fading light.
Jayce bent down to gather some scattered notes off the floor. "Well… I look forward to seeing what you come up with," he said absently.
When he straightened up again, his workshop was quiet.
"Jonathan?" he called, scanning the room.
Silence.
Jayce's gaze drifted toward the balcony doors—slightly ajar.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Of course he'd sneak out dramatically," he muttered.
———————————————————-
Crane lay on the floor in his dimly lit room, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
After returning to the lab, he decided it was time to put his plan into motion.
With a slow breath, he closed his eyes.
Sleep came easily, and as his body stilled, his astral form began to stir.
He phased out of the lab like a shadow peeling off the wall, silent and weightless.
The familiar feeling of drifting wrapped around him. Zaun stretched out below—loud, dirty, and glowing with green neon.
He moved through the streets, through buildings, until he found it: The Last Drop.
Without slowing down, he passed through the walls and headed for the basement.
There she was—Vi, fast asleep.
Crane floated over her, watching her for a moment.
I'll just go in and change her dream. Make her dream about me. That should trick her brain into thinking she loves me… or maybe it'll turn into an obsession.
He shrugged slightly.
Only one way to find out.
He reached toward the faint, glowing orb floating above her—her dream—and touched it.
In an instant, he was pulled inside.
———————————————
Opening his eyes, Crane was met with smoke.
It clung to the air like a shroud, thick and choking.
Gunshots cracked in the distance—sharp, panicked bursts echoing through the chaos.
He blinked and looked around.
He was on a bridge.
Shattered concrete and twisted metal lay scattered.
Fires burned low in craters. Bodies—some in Enforcer armor, some Zaunite—littered the ground in silent testament to the carnage.
And then he saw them.
Vi, clutching Powder's hand, walking ahead of him. They both looked younger—fragile, confused. Vi's jaw was set, her eyes wild, desperate.
Crane's breath caught in his throat.
This isn't a dream…
No. He knew this place.
This is a nightmare.
One of hers.
Crane took a step back, bringing a hand to his face as he scanned the scene again.
"Okay… this wasn't what I was expecting," he muttered under his breath, "but I can work with this."
Vi was in the middle of her worst memory—fear, loss, failure all wrapped into one. That kind of raw vulnerability carved deep into the mind.
Perfect.
"If she's at rock bottom… what happens if I pull her to the top?" he mused. "Flip the nightmare into a dream. Rebuild the memory from ashes. But this time—I'm in it."
A subtle grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Let's see what happens when she starts associating comfort… with me.
With a simple wave of his hand, the nightmare unraveled.
The smoke cleared. The gunfire vanished. The broken bridge repaired itself, brick by brick, like time running in reverse.
Laughter replaced screams.
The cold wind softened into a warm breeze.
Vi blinked, looking around in confusion as the once-ruined bridge came to life—lined with street vendors, children playing, music echoing in the distance. People bustled by, smiling, alive.
"Vi! We gotta hurry or we'll be late!" Powder called out—older now, her voice light and teasing.
She tugged Vi's hand, pulling her forward through the crowd.
They weaved through the bustling bridge until they reached a familiar spot—Jericho's place, now rebuilt and cozy, right at the heart of the bridge like it had always belonged there.
Vi slowed, eyes widening at the sight before her.
Mylo, Claggor, and… Crane, all seated at a table, steam rising from bowls of hot food.
"There you are," Mylo grinned. "What took you so long? Your food's getting cold."
Powder took the seat next to him without hesitation, chuckling before she started eating.
Vi glanced at the table.
Conveniently only one seat was left—right next to Crane.
Vi sat down beside him. "I was just spacing out… thinking about the past."
"Well, don't keep dwelling on it," Powder said, grinning. "You've got my competition to cheer me on at, and this time I'm gonna win."
"Competition?" Vi raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, I got Jonathan to help me this time. So, no screw-ups with my gadgets breaking."
Vi turned to Crane. "You helped Powder?"
"Yeah," he said casually. "Her gadget nearly blew me up."
"My bad," Powder muttered, grinning.
"You can't keep Jonathan with you all the time, Powder," Mylo chimed in. "He needs to be close by so I can ask him for dating advice."
"Hey, Jonathan's staying with me," Claggor cut in. "He helped clean the air down here—clean air's more important than your tragic love life."
Powder, Mylo, and Claggor immediately launched into a round of playful bickering.
Crane leaned a little closer to Vi and whispered, "I don't know how you handle them."
Vi smiled as she watched the three of them argue, warmth in her eyes.
The moment felt perfect—loud, chaotic, and full of life.
"Eh, you get used to it," she said softly.
The bickering died down for a moment.
"Finding love is very important—at least more important than whatever Jonathan and Vi do," Mylo said with a dramatic shrug.
Powder rolled her eyes. "What they do is way more important than your sad excuse for a love life. But seriously, Vi—don't keep hogging him all to yourself."
Vi blinked, a bit thrown. "Wait… what do we do again?"
Before anyone could answer, the world around her flickered.
In an instant, the bridge, the food, the laughter—gone.
She blinked again—and now she was standing in a boxing ring.
The sounds of a roaring crowd echoed around her, the lights overhead hot and bright.
Outside the ropes, Powder folded her arms and muttered to Mylo and Claggor, "I told her to stop hogging him for fights, and now she's trying to fight him again."
Vi stood across from Crane, who was already in position.
Do I… actually train with him? she wondered. Is this how I blow off steam?
The bell rang.
They launched at each other.
To Vi, it all became a blur—motion, muscle memory, the crack of gloves meeting gloves. She couldn't even feel the punches.
That was Crane's doing. He had no interest in the fight, not really.
So he blurred the dream—sped it up, dulled the pain.
The result? It felt more like a montage than a match.
Until it stopped.
"I'd call that a tie, wouldn't you?" Crane said, catching his breath with a faint grin.
"Yeah, sure. I'll give you that," Vi replied, wiping sweat from her brow.
She cracked her knuckles. "Another round."
Crane raised a hand, shaking his head with a smirk. "Gotta help everyone else first. After that—maybe."
Before she could argue, the world shifted again.
This time, it was a montage.
Crane helping Powder adjust the wiring in her gadget—holding it steady while she soldered, both of them laughing when it sparked a little too close to his coat.
Cut to Crane standing awkwardly beside Mylo, whispering pointers while Mylo nervously handed flowers to a girl. Crane gave a subtle thumbs-up behind his back.
Then—Crane and Claggor in a wide, open patch of Zaun, planting saplings in reinforced soil.
Crane adjusted the position of a small filtration unit near the roots, keeping the air clean.
Every scene was brighter, lighter, like the sun actually touched Zaun.
Vi watched it all, arms crossed, brow raised slightly—but there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Someone finally knows what it feels like to take care of them.
For once, the weight wasn't just on her. Someone else was stepping in, keeping the peace, fixing things, being there.
She didn't have to hold it all together alone.
And it felt… good. Strange, but good.
Crane appeared beside her again, wiping dirt from his gloves, the ghost of a smirk still on his face.
"So, I'm ready for round two."
Vi smirked, rolling her shoulders. "Okay. Round two. No ties this time."
——————————————
Crane exited the dream, drifting out of Vi's mind and floating above her sleeping form in his astral state.
"Wow," he muttered. "If I want to make her fall for me, I'm gonna have to do this a lot more."
He stretched his neck, cracking it slightly even though there was no real body to feel it.
"Alright… next."
With that, he turned and zipped upward, flying through the night sky and toward Piltover.
The lights got cleaner, brighter, more polished the closer he got—less rust, more gold.
He phased right through the outer walls of the Kiramman mansion like they weren't even there.
The guards patrolling the grounds were clueless, completely unaware of the ghost gliding past them.
"Fancy," he muttered as he moved through the halls.
He slowed as he entered a large bedroom. Caitlyn was asleep, curled up in a massive bed with way too many pillows.
Crane hovered at the foot of the bed, scanning the room.
"Damn. I'm kind of jealous," he muttered under his breath, eyeing the neatly organized books, the spotless desk, and the general sense of peace the room gave off.
Then his eyes locked on the soft glow above Caitlyn's head—her dream.
He drifted closer, reached out, and pressed his fingers to the orb.
In a blink, he was pulled in.
————————————————
Crane opened his eyes and immediately turned himself invisible within the dream.
He glanced around, realizing he was in a bathroom.
There she was—wrapped in a towel, checking the soap and adjusting the water before stepping into the shower.
Crane instinctively covered his eyes with one hand.
Then paused.
Really? I'm acting shy now? he thought, lowering his hand. I've done worse than peep.
Still, he watched, puzzled.
Why is she cleaning herself in her own dream?
He tilted his head slightly.
he furrowed his brow.
Why is she doing this in her dream? Most people fantasize about adventure, desire, ambition… not morning routines.
After she finished using the shower and getting dressed, she stepped out of the bathroom—and the dream shifted.
Now, she stood outside a door.
Jayce's?
Crane narrowed his eyes.
Huh?
She opened the door—and saw him.
Not the real Crane.
Just the one her mind had created.
She's already dreaming about me…
"You know how last time you said you'd give me your answer—about whether you'd accept me as a friend?" Caitlyn asked, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to appear casual.
Crane raised an eyebrow, watching silently from his invisible spot.
She's really fixated on that? That's what made it into her dream?
The dream version of him smiled gently. "Yeah. I thought about it."
Caitlyn looked hopeful, and even in a dream, she seemed to be bracing herself.
"Well?" she asked.
Crane leaned closer, curious how her mind would fill in his answer.
"I would love to be your friend, Caitlyn," the dream version of him said with a soft smile.
Huh. I guess it's to be expected that I'd agree, Crane thought.
Then came the unexpected:
"Also, you smell exceptionally good."
Crane's head jerked back slightly.
What?!
He stared, wide-eyed, as the dream version of himself gave Caitlyn a warm smile—charming, sincere, and way too smooth.
"I mean it," the fake Crane continued. "You always smell like fresh rain and old books. It's… comforting."
Crane blinked a few times, stunned.
Fresh rain and old books? What kind of romance novel-level nonsense is this?
Caitlyn looked flustered in the dream, cheeks tinted pink as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh. Well… thank you."
Crane squinted.
What even is this? Did her subconscious just give me a personality transplant?
He crossed his arms, muttering, "This is dangerously wholesome."
—————————————
Crane drifted out of her dream, his astral form hovering above Caitlyn as she slept soundly below.
I didn't even need to do anything… she's already dreaming of me.
He stared at her for a moment, processing everything.
But I did learn what to say. I'll agree to be her friend—I was always going to agree, so that didn't change anything.
His brow furrowed slightly.
But I guess… I'll compliment her smell?
He looked unsure.
Weird, but sure. Apparently it works.
He turned away, floating back toward the window.
I'm actually done for tonight. Might as well map out Zaun.
Crane drifted high over the city, scanning everything below with a sharp eye.
He took mental notes of alleys, walkways, shortcuts—anything useful.
Most of it was normal. People walking, talking, dealing. Nothing out of place.
But then he spotted something odd—down near the industrial pipes.
A group of people. Too clean. Too well-dressed.
Not Zaunites. Not the kind of rich that blends in down here. More like topside elite.
Crane narrowed his eyes.
Now that's interesting.
He drifted down, moving closer without making a sound.
The two groups stood at the edge of a rusted platform near an old maintenance shaft—quiet, hidden, but not hidden enough.
One group wore crisp coats, polished shoes—topside elite, no question.
The other group looked wealthy too, but in a different way. Zaun-born, with grime on their boots and style shaped by survival.
"You have the organs?" one of the topsiders asked, tone clipped and businesslike.
One of the Zaunites handed over a metal box.
The topsider opened it, lips thinning. "This is twelve. We asked for thirty."
"You'll get the rest when you pay," the Zaunite shot back, unbothered.
Crane's eyes darkened slightly.
Organ trade? Charming.
"The other sellers don't treat us like this," the topsider snapped.
"Well," the Zaunite said, shrugging with a smirk, "the others don't get the organs as fast as we do, do they?"
Crane hovered above them silently, hearing every word.
Organ trade, huh? Sounds simple… and easy.
He watched as the topsiders handed over the payment and received the box in return, the exchange quick and practiced—clearly not their first time.
Crane's gaze lingered on the Zaunites as they turned and walked off into the depths of the undercity.
He followed from above, unseen, trailing them through winding alleys and back passages, making careful note of every twist and turn.
When they finally reached their base—a tucked-away building with rusted vents and faint lights leaking through boarded windows—Crane floated in closer, just enough to peer inside. He scanned the setup, noting faces, layout, entrances.
Then he pulled back.
No need to act yet.
He had what he needed.
——————————————
Returning to the lab, Crane drifted back through the walls in his astral form, silent and invisible.
There—his sleeping body lay stretched out on the floor, hands folded over his chest, perfectly still. The faint glow of his dream orb shimmered above him.
Crane hovered over it, then reached out and touched the orb.
In an instant, he was pulled back in.
His body tensed—then relaxed.
Eyes fluttered open.
———————————
Elsewhere, in a pristine topside hospital, the organs were carefully unpacked and preserved by a team of doctors.
One of the younger staff leaned over to the head doctor, whispering, "Why are we buying from them? There are plenty of other Zaunite dealers."
The head doctor didn't even look up. "If we only buy from one source, they'll get comfortable. Raise prices. Build power. We keep them competing—that way none of them grow too big."
"So… we're keeping them against each other on purpose?"
"Exactly," the head doctor said simply. "Controlled chaos keeps the supply cheap."
The assistant looked uneasy. "Feels like we're playing a game with lives."
The head doctor didn't even flinch. "That's how the system works. We don't make the rules—we just make sure the hospital doesn't run dry."
———————————
I hate frosting on cake.