It had been a week since the sky bled red.
A week since the Parademons came screaming through the clouds, clawing into cities and people alike. The world had barely begun to breathe again—if one could call it breathing.
In every major city, cemeteries overflowed. Fresh graves were carved into the earth like open wounds, row upon row of names—some remembered, others unknown. Civilians, heroes, even the occasional villain. The loss was universal. Gotham mourned. Metropolis fell into silence. Central City—though spared the worst—still wept quietly under its fractured skyline.
And the man who led it all—Steppenwolf—was dead. Not by human hands, but by a greater monster. Darkseid, the being behind the curtain, had turned his lieutenant to ash with a glance and a promise.
A promise to return.
Central City's outer industrial district was a grave in itself—abandoned long before the invasion. Rusted silos, shattered warehouses, and broken roads filled the outskirts. One building, an old distribution center for shipping supplies, had been untouched by both villain and hero.
Because no one dared look too long at the shadow that lived inside it.
A shadow with glowing green eyes.
Springtrap.
Inside, the creature sat hunched over a table of salvaged alien tech, tools made from stolen machine arms, and bones stripped from broken Parademons.
He welded in silence—sparks dancing over the dented armor of his forearm. A makeshift power cell hummed low on the table.
He had done it.
He'd taken a retractable blade—once part of a Parademon's severed talon—and fused it to his left arm. It slid forward with a soft hiss of pressurized steam, locking into place with a clean snap. It wasn't elegant, but it was efficient.
And dangerous.
On the nearby wall, a crude target was scorched with plasma burns. A small, handgun-sized weapon sat beside the table, wires barely holding its casing together. It hissed with heat even as it cooled.
One shot every seven seconds. A built-in overheat delay meant more than one burst could melt the inner casing. He'd already destroyed two prototypes that way.
Still, it was progress.
"Crude," Springtrap muttered, twisting the barrel with precision, "but functional. Better than claws. Most days."
He stood, the motion smooth despite his creaking frame. His body was still a monument to rot—flesh that refused to die, circuitry that still ticked. But he was learning. Evolving.
And immortal.
He had cracked that mystery decades ago—long before aliens fell from the sky. When he tried to make his family immortal. When he failed. When only he remained.
He should have let himself decay.
But now?
Now he was more than memory and guilt. He was adaptation.
The sunlight barely touched the far end of the district. That suited him fine. The Flash had returned to Central City, and Springtrap preferred to remain off the radar. Though he kept his base powered and secure, he only left when absolutely necessary—to gather parts, recharge stolen batteries, or retrieve Parademon wreckage before it was hauled away.
And once every few days… there was her.
A small knock echoed through the broken loading dock.
Knock-knock… knock.
He turned toward the far door, eye flickering brighter.
The rusted metal creaked as it opened.
A young girl—skin dark with soot and sun, hair wild and curly—stepped in. A little older than ten, maybe. Dirt smudged across her cheeks. A ratty hoodie covered her frame. She carried a cracked lunchbox and a determined look.
"Back again," Springtrap rasped, not unkindly.
She smiled wide. "I brought you something! Found an old vending machine still working! Guess what I got?"
"Chips," he replied. "Salted. Slightly expired."
Her eyes lit up. "How'd you know?!"
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and resumed working on his open rifle casing. The girl sat cross-legged on a stacked pile of crates.
"You know you don't have to eat it," she said, carefully unwrapping the snack. "I just like pretending. It's like I'm having lunch with someone."
"I can't eat," Springtrap replied, examining a copper capacitor through a salvaged lens. "Don't need to. Biological processes ceased years ago. Synthetic fluids only." Springtrap said half jokingly.
She popped a chip into her mouth. "Yeah, yeah. You say that every time. But I bet you used to eat. Before you were all... crispy."
He didn't respond. But his posture shifted.
After a moment, he sat down across from her, blade retracted, plasma pistol idling.
"You remind me of someone," he finally said. "Someone small. Someone loud. She liked cheddar snacks. Not salt."
The girl giggled. "What happened to her?"
He paused.
"...I made a mistake."
That was all he offered.
She didn't push.
They sat in silence. Chips crunched. Tools clicked. Somewhere outside, a police siren howled and faded.
Eventually, she stood. "I gotta go. Still gotta find dinner. And maybe steal some shampoo."
"I could steal it for you."
She shook her head. "Nah. You'd scare the checkout guy into peeing himself. Again."
He tilted his head slightly. "...Accurate."
She waved. "Bye, Springy!"
"I told you not to call me—"
But she was already gone.
Hours passed.
The warehouse grew dim as the sun sank behind the skyline. Springtrap hunched over another corpse—stripped of armor, its inner structure glinting with residual alien alloy. The power cells were mostly dead, but the spinal interface was fascinating.
"This... could link to muscle commands," he murmured. "If synced properly, an exosuit. Augment strength. Maybe... even neural feedback."
He reached for a soldering tool.
But something outside shifted.
He froze.
A breeze. Different. Warmer. Charged.
He turned off the power. The warehouse plunged into quiet shadow. Footsteps echoed—distant. Steady. Not the girl. Not human. Too heavy.
A whisper rose in his dead lungs. Something like a warning.
Something was coming.
And it wasn't just the wind.