Barry Allen had seen a lot. Time travel. Multiverses. Speed gods. But what haunted him now wasn't cosmic. It was local—too local. Something had hollowed out a piece of Central City right under his nose, and the worst part? It wasn't a supervillain.
In the sterile glow of STAR Labs, Barry paced like a pendulum, hands in his hair and thoughts a hundred miles an hour.
"It wasn't even a metahuman," he muttered. "I didn't even feel the shift. I'm The Flash. How do I miss an entire child trafficking network?"
Cisco Ramon leaned back in his chair, letting a hologram flicker beside him. "Because you were busy saving the world—again," he replied. "Between the Wally mentoring, Parademon mop-up, and the planetary recon runs? I'm surprised you even sleep."
Barry scoffed. "Yeah, well, I missed something I should've seen. A monster burned that place down. Left a message in blood that read 'Your way gets people killed.' It's like he... blamed me."
Wally stood quietly by the console, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "He's not wrong, though. You've kept the Flash clean. Above killing. But it's not working on everyone."
Barry paused, biting down on the guilt that had been swirling for days.
"We need answers," he finally said. "Cisco, call Batman."
Cisco blinked. "Wait, really?"
"I know he's been tracking alien weapons falling into black markets since the invasion. This guy? He's using tech, maybe even Parademon tech according to the sizzling wounds on some people. If anyone can help us catch up, it's Bruce."
—
Meanwhile, miles away and several towns over, the green, decaying frame of Springtrap drove a stolen, rust-bitten Chrysler through the golden plains of Kansas.
Springtrap didn't breathe—not in any traditional sense—but something about the wind outside the cracked window still comforted him. It was fresh. Real. Untouched. It reminded him of a time before sealed rooms and purple uniforms.
He needed a break from the blood. From the fire. From the girl's eyes—empty and glassy when he found her. He didn't want to think. So he drove to a place he'd heard whispers of on the fringes of intercepted phone signals and security frequencies: Smallville.
It was barely a blip on any map. Quiet. Rural. Perfect.
He parked behind a decaying barn on the town's edge and threw on a long black coat, hood drawn tight over his animatronic skull. His movements were inhuman—smooth yet rigid, like a puppet missing strings—but to the locals, he looked like a strange homeless drifter in a Halloween costume.
And in a way... he was.
Springtrap moved through Smallville with purpose, eyes scanning, his internal systems flickering weak warnings about overheating joints and parasitic decay. But he didn't care. He was here for one thing: to finish what he started before death.
The Illusion Disc.
He remembered the prototype. A compact emitter infused with Remnant—a soul-reactive material—that could project a visual disguise for short bursts. A fake face. A mask not of metal, but light. It had never reached completion, thanks to the... Springlock Incident.
"Thirty years in a wall," he muttered to himself, entering a small general store. The automatic door chimed a pleasant ding. "Time to make up for lost time."
He grabbed wiring, scrap copper, insulation, screws, a soldering wand, and a makeshift power converter. It wasn't much, but he'd survived on less. He swiped a stolen credit card—last used by a man whose neck he'd crushed last week—and exited into the midday sun.
Now he just needed a place to work.
He tried three farmhouses. The first never answered. The second had a shotgun poking through the blinds. The third… the third was silent. Abandoned, maybe?
He turned away in frustration, metal boots thudding softly on the porch. That's when the door creaked open behind him.
"Don't usually get visitors out here," said a voice, calm and strong.
Springtrap turned slowly. A man in his late forties stood at the doorway. Plaid shirt. Weathered hands. Eyes like steel.
"I need your workbench," Springtrap rasped, voice like gears grinding on metal.
The man raised a brow. "Well, that's a new one."
"Please," Springtrap added. "Just an hour or two."
The man looked him up and down. "Rotten bunny, huh? Not the strangest thing I've seen." He stepped aside and motioned inside. "Name's John. John Kent. Workbench's in the shed out back. Tools are there, too. Don't set anything on fire."
Springtrap froze for a moment. The name Kent rang a bell. Something about Superman. But he shook the thought. Coincidence. Had to be.
"Thank you," he said.
John just nodded and walked back inside.
Springtrap made his way to the shed, ducking beneath the wooden archway. The workbench was dusty but sturdy. He placed his sack of parts down and opened a small notebook—well-worn, tattered, stained with time. It was all that remained of his original design.
"Back to square one," he whispered, and he got to work.
Hours passed. The sun lowered. Metal clinked. Sparks danced. He rewired circuit paths, reconfigured emitters, and soldered together a delicate disc no larger than his palm. It hummed when activated—faint and weak, but promising.
He tested it on a nearby chicken coop.
The image of a rusty trash can shimmered over his body. It lasted three seconds before sputtering out.
Springtrap grinned beneath the rot. "Not bad for an amateur."
He didn't know much about this world. Not really. Just fragments. Superman was real. Batman, too. A red blur zipped across cities. Magic existed. Aliens existed. And the tech? Oh, it was beautiful. He'd taken apart plasma weaponry, ripped apart Parademon circuits. But this... illusion work was his. It was human.
Or at least it had been.
He reached into his coat, pulling out the plasma pistol. It buzzed softly, damaged but usable. With this and the disc, he could move freely again. Hide in plain sight.
"I'll finish this," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone. "I'll become the ghost they never see coming."
Because something was changing.
The city was watching for him now. Heroes. Police. Maybe even gods.
But he had time. And patience.
And rage.
Springtrap turned to a piece of parchment and started drawing. New schematics. Upgrades. His eyes flickered softly—half gold, half crimson.
They'll never cage me again.