The Scarecrow eyed the offered hand. This was certainly strange behavior for a man who so vehemently insisted he'd been made of metal and machinery just a few days ago, and that a man made of straw wasn't capable of having thoughts. Maybe he was the fickle sort, though being fickle about one's identity seemed unlikely.

Then again, it was something the strawman himself had been worrying about since that visit from Dorothy.

"Okay," he said plainly, the confusing evident on his face. "I'm still the Scarecrow, last time I checked." He shook Scourge's hand carefully.