Jayce stretched, letting out a long yawn.
"Alright… let's get this over with," he muttered, scratching his back.
He shuffled over to his desk, grabbed a crumpled paper from the corner—his supply list—and gave it a quick glance.
After slipping it into his pocket, he got dressed, ran a hand through his hair, and stood up straight.
With a small breath, he opened the door and stepped outside.
Click. The door shut behind him.
——————————————
Arriving in the undercity, Jayce glanced around.
Can't say I was expecting much, he thought, eyeing the cracked walls, rusted signs, and flickering lights. So this is where Jonathan lives… huh.
He moved forward, careful with his steps, scanning the shops for the supplies he needed.
Nothing promising so far.
I shouldn't go too far, Jayce thought, pausing to glance over his shoulder. Not without a map—and definitely not without backup.
Still, he pressed on a little farther, eyes darting between storefronts.
Jayce paused as he passed a freshly nailed poster against the wall.
A crude sketch stared back at him—a burlap mask drawn in heavy strokes, the eyes dark and hollow.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
MADMAN AT LARGE – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
He frowned, tapping the edge of the paper with two fingers.
"Charming neighborhood," he muttered, then kept walking.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something through the dusty glass of a shop window—scraps of metal, old tools, and scattered supplies.
"This is promising," Jayce muttered, his gaze shifting to the faded sign above the door: Benzo.
He stepped forward and opened the door, the bell above giving a dull ding as he walked in.
Inside, the shop was dimly lit and cluttered. Behind the counter, a man had his head resting on the wood, clearly half-asleep.
Nearby, a kid sat on a stool, tinkering with a small gadget in his hands with ease.
Jayce raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the device. Then he turned his attention to the man at the counter.
"Are you Benzo?" Jayce asked, uncertain.
The man didn't even sit up. "I don't do small talk with strangers… unless you're buying something. Otherwise, scram."
Jayce blinked. "Okay then." He gave a stiff nod, a little offended. "Noted."
He turned away and began browsing the shelves.
The shop was crammed with all kinds of odds and ends—trinkets, gears, wires, strange half-built machines.
Customer service is not great in the undercity, he thought, inspecting a rusted component that can't be found in topside.
As he examined the clutter, the kid with the gadget hopped off his stool and walked up to him.
"Need help with anything?" he asked casually, flipping the device shut with a click.
"Help?" Jayce looked genuinely surprised. "You work here?"
"You could say that," the kid shrugged.
Jayce hummed, turning back to the shelves. He scanned the trinkets and gadgets—half of which couldn't even be found topside.
"Do you have a bag?" Jayce asked. Then, after a pause: "A bag is something you use to hold stuff in."
The kid deadpanned. "Dude. I know what a bag is."
He sighed. "And no, we don't carry bags here."
Jayce nodded slowly. "Figures."
"But," the kid added, "we do have boxes."
He gave a mock-serious nod. "A box is something you can put objects in."
Jayce gave him a sideways look. "Okay, okay—I get it."
"Just making sure," the kid said, smirking as he turned around.
He disappeared behind the counter and came back a moment later with two beat-up but sturdy boxes.
"Here you go," he said, setting them down with a thud.
Jayce grabbed one and started loading it with trinkets, spare parts, and random scraps—nothing that looked too valuable, but exactly the kind of thing he needed. The kind of junk that didn't make it topside.
The kid watched with a growing grin. Oh yeah, he thought. This guy's gonna get charged so hard.
Jayce grabbed the second box and did the same—filling it with gadgets, old tools, weird tubes, and pieces of tech he barely recognized but figured he could study later.
Once both boxes were full, he stacked them and carried them over to the counter. He dropped them down with a dull plunk.
"I'm ready," he said.
Benzo finally lifted his head off the counter and squinted at the boxes.
"Let me see what you've got first," he muttered, leaning forward.
"I saw what he got," the kid cut in, stepping up beside him. "I watched him pick every piece."
Then he leaned in and whispered something in Benzo's ear, grinning like he already knew this was easy money.
Benzo raised an eyebrow, then smiled.
"Got it," he said, straightening up. "The kid'll take it from here."
Jayce nodded. "That's fine."
The kid coughed and cleared his throat. "Ahem. The price is—"
—————————-
Since yesterday, Scarecrow had been locked in a cell, handcuffed and sprawled out on the narrow bed.
Now, he was waiting. For someone. Anyone.
"This is really comfortable," he muttered, yawning. "You know, for a prison bed."
Click.
"Huh?"
He turned his head as the heavy metal door creaked open and a squad of enforcers stepped in.
"What now?" he groaned.
One of them grabbed him by the arm. "You're being brought in for sentencing. Now quiet down."
"Sentencing?" Scarecrow lit up. "Oh, sweet. Let's go."
———————————
"The hell is this?"
Scarecrow blinked as he was led into… a normal courtroom. A judge's bench. Enforcers flanking him.
And sitting off to the side was the woman with the peg leg from the dock, nervously avoiding eye contact.
The judge, a stern woman with sharp eyes, raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong? Finally contemplating your life choices?"
"What? No!" Scarecrow said quickly, waving one cuffed hand. "I don't contemplate. I did what I did. I'm just surprised I'm in a normal courtroom."
He looked around in disbelief. "I expected the Council. Or at least a Councilor."
The entire room stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
The judge gave a small laugh. "I'm sorry, you thought this warranted the Council?"
"Really?" Scarecrow tilted his head, almost offended. "But I literally caused the hospital tragedy."
The woman with the peg leg covered her mouth. One enforcer took a half-step back.
And still, no one spoke.
"I thought my mask gave it away," he added, gesturing vaguely. "I mean—have you read the newspapers? You know, the kid with the mask?"
Everyone just stared, horrified.
"That kid," Scarecrow went on, chuckling as if remembering an old joke, "he was the first affected."
The woman with the peg leg shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
One of the enforcers behind him muttered something under his breath.
The judge had heard enough. She leaned forward, her voice sharp. "You killed a minor. A child—"
"Oh thank God it wasn't an adult child," Scarecrow cut in, grinning. "That would've been a tragedy."
The judge stared at him for a long moment. Then:
"…Why?"
"Why?" Scarecrow blinked. "Because I cou—"
"No," the judge interrupted sharply. "Tell us."
Her tone shifted. He could hear it. Everyone could.
Something wasn't right, and now she knew it too.
"You could've been sentenced for murder… but you made it worse. Why?"
Scarecrow blinked. His grin faded—just slightly.
"Why?"
There was a beat of silence. Then, flatly:
"Because I want to be noticed," he said. "To be remembered."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
He went on, his tone unusually sincere.
"But I can't be remembered or noticed if I work from the dark. So I confess."
"I want people to know me. Fear me. Speak my name like a myth."
He raised his cuffed hands slowly, looking directly at the judge.
"Don't forget me."
The judge's expression hardened.
She turned to the guards. "Take him back to his cell."
Scarecrow didn't resist.
"This case is no longer under my jurisdiction," she added, voice low.
The enforcers stepped forward and grabbed him by the arms.
As they dragged him out, Scarecrow smiled again—wider this time.
"Good," he whispered. "It means I'm finally getting somewhere."
The courtroom doors closed behind him with a heavy clang.
————————
I don't think there has been any good largo games in a while.