Springtrap left the Kent Farm just as the morning sun broke over the distant hills, casting gold onto the dew-soaked fields. He turned back once, just once, and gave a nod toward the farmhouse, the gesture almost human. John Kent stood on the porch, arms crossed, silently watching him go.
"Thanks for the bench," William Afton rasped from beneath his hood. "I'll repay it. Someday."
John raised a hand, offering nothing more than a quiet nod.
Springtrap walked a mile down the gravel road where the old Chrysler was still hidden behind the decaying barn, its chipped paint now more rust than red. He approached it slowly, his heavy boots leaving imprints in the dirt. As he reached the side of the vehicle, he rolled up his sleeve and looked at his decaying arm—mechanical tendon fused with rot. A wicked green light pulsed under his synthetic skin.
"This better work…"
He reached into his coat, pulled out the small, disc-shaped device—the Illusion Disc. He pressed it against the exposed wiring of his right arm until it clicked into place with a faint whirr. The moment it lodged in, the light blinked from red to green.
[ILLUSION DISC ACTIVE – 100% CHARGE]
The change was instant. His rotting animatronic body shimmered, flickered—and then solidified. Where once stood a nightmare of metal, mold, and fury, now stood a man. Clean-cut. Middle-aged. Slight stubble. Tan jacket. Sharp brown eyes behind a pair of scratched sunglasses. William Afton reborn.
And for the first time in thirty years, he breathed.
He inhaled deeply, staggering for a second as the scent of wildflowers, gasoline, and soil hit him. Not through filters or processors—but through lungs. Real or not, the sensation was visceral.
"This…" he whispered, almost reverently, "this is living."
But it wasn't without cost. The Illusion Disc, a miracle born of Remnant and madness, came with rules. One: the soul anchored by Remnant would retain control. Without Remnant, the device would override the soul completely, turning the wearer into an empty shell. Two: it could not get wet. Water short-circuited the device. Three: it must remain intact. If destroyed, the illusion would shatter—and his body, his true form, would be exposed to the world again.
But for now, it worked. He could blend in. Eat. Sleep. Lie. Manipulate.
And he had a goal.
"Time to get a proper ID," William muttered, slipping behind the wheel. The engine groaned but started. He peeled out of Smallville, heading straight for New York City. The only place where a man could disappear in plain sight—and buy a real identity.
Unbeknownst to him, across a nearby hilltop, a figure in a black tactical suit and red visor watched the departing car through high-powered binoculars.
"He's on the move," the man said into his comms. "Rabbit's gone urban."
—
In Smallville, just a couple of hours later, a black Batjet streaked through the sky above the golden fields. It landed silently near the edge of the Kent property, and out stepped two of the world's fastest minds—Batman and The Flash.
They didn't waste time.
"He's not subtle," Batman muttered, scanning the ground with a handheld device. "Tire treads match the stolen truck from the organ ring. License plate's gone. He removed it."
Barry paced impatiently beside him, looking back toward the farmhouse. "You really think he came here?"
"We have traffic cam footage—shows the animatronic matching the report leaving the city. Direction: Kansas. Rural path. This place is isolated, easy to disappear in. And people saw a hooded figure approach that house." Batman pointed toward the Kent residence.
Barry raised a brow. "Aren't those—?"
"Yes," Batman cut in.
They walked briskly to the door and knocked once before it swung open.
Martha Kent stood in the doorway, apron still dusted with flour. "What's going on, Bruce?" she asked, calm but concerned.
Barry blinked. "Wait—you know him?"
"I built his emergency suits," Batman muttered. "Long story."
"We need to see John," he added.
John Kent appeared behind her, already expecting them.
"It's about the rabbit, isn't it?" he asked, wiping grease from his hands.
Martha frowned. "What rabbit?"
John gestured toward the nearby barn. "Man in a green suit. Hooded. Said he needed my workbench. Looked like hell—smelled worse. Said he'd repay me someday and left without another word."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "What did he build?"
John scratched his beard. "Some kind of disc. Small thing. Looked like an old CD player. But the second he finished it, I swear, something about him changed. Like he wasn't… a corpse anymore."
"There was something under that suit," John continued. "Something that didn't sit right. I couldn't see it, but… I could smell it. Whatever it is, he's not from around here."
Flash glanced around. "And nobody's seen him since?"
John shook his head. "This town's small. Someone would've said something if he were still here."
Batman nodded and turned away. "We're done here."
"Where to?" Barry asked, trailing him.
"Metropolis," Batman replied.
Barry blinked. "Why would he go there?"
"Because someone's already found it."
Barry's heart skipped. "Found what?"
Batman didn't reply with words. He simply pulled out his custom League phone, tapped a few commands, and flipped it toward Barry.
It was a League-level alert.
A still image taken from a security camera in New York.
A man—brown-haired, tan jacket—casually walking into a government building.
But the real image was the second photo underneath it: the glitched, momentary flicker of the illusion disc failing for a split second. The grotesque, decaying animatronic revealed beneath.
"William Afton," Batman said grimly. "Wanted for arson, mass murder, and the destruction of over twenty traffickers. Information on his whereabouts is now worth $500,000."
Flash's mouth opened. "Wait. Metropolis issued the bounty?"
"Not them," Batman corrected. "The U.S. government. Someone high up. A Task Force."
Flash's eyes widened. "You mean…?"
Batman's gaze was cold. "Task Force X. And they're already en route."
—
Meanwhile, across the east coast, the streets of New York buzzed as usual. Springtrap—now perfectly disguised as William Afton—exited the DMV with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He looked at the ID in his hands.
"Mark Bishop," it read.
New identity. New life.
He didn't notice the drone above the skyline tracking his every move. Nor the shadow that darted across rooftops silently behind him.
Inside a blacked-out military helicopter above the city, Amanda Waller stared at a live video feed of Afton's face.
"I want him alive," she barked. "Whatever tech he's using—Remnant, illusion discs, whatever—it's dangerous."
On the other side of the cabin, Deadshot cocked his rifle.
"Alive's subjective," he muttered.
Harley Quinn twirled her bat. "Rotten robot man, huh? Hope he's got a funny bone."
King Shark drooled and grinned. "I like bunny meat."
Captain Boomerang groaned. "We're hunting furries now?"
"No," Waller snapped. "You're hunting something worse."
The screen flickered.
Springtrap's face stared back, glitching slightly, like static crawling beneath a mask.