The next morning passed in silence. Harry sat at his desk, a small notepad before him filled with rough sketches and scattered thoughts. Wires, servos, gears — all of it written in careful, tidy handwriting. He'd already taken apart most of his broken toys, cataloging what could be reused and what was useless. What he lacked, however, couldn't be found in old junk.
He needed Remnant.
The word itself had begun to feel heavy, almost sacred. A strange metal infused with life — with soul. He'd seen what it could do: make something dead move, make something that wasn't human feel alive. His pencil tapped against the desk as he thought.
He couldn't rely on luck again. The alley had worked once, but it was dangerous, unpredictable. There had to be a smarter way.
He began drafting ideas. Hospitals. Morgues. Places where death was expected, unnoticed. He wouldn't have to kill again, not directly. If he could take from those already gone, the risk dropped to nearly zero.
A faint hum filled the room.
Harry turned. Plushtrap shimmered into visibility on the windowsill, a faint grin tugging at his metallic mouth.
"You've been busy," he chirped. "Planning ahead already?"
Harry nodded, setting the pencil aside. "We'll need more Remnant if we want to make more of you."
Plushtrap jumped down, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. "True," he said, tone unusually serious. "But maybe… we could use it for something better."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Better?"
The animatronic's eyes glowed faintly orange. "I remembered something," he said slowly. "Something from before. Back when Remnant was still being… tested." His claws twitched lightly against the floorboards. "There were people — only two — who ever had it put into them. Not just animatronics. Humans."
Harry leaned forward, interest flickering in his eyes. "And?"
"They both died," Plushtrap said simply. "One injected a lot of Remnant into himself and was driven mad — he got cornered by the ones he killed and was trapped and died in an animatronic suit. The other died during the process. But it wasn't the Remnant that killed them — it was the injury. A hole made in their stomach, their organs removed." His eyes dimmed slightly. "Both lived on, though. One as an animatronic, the other as a walking corpse."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then: "And if they had survived the process?"
Plushtrap's grin widened. "Then they wouldn't have died at all."
The silence that followed was sharp, heavy, and full of possibility.
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're saying Remnant could keep me alive? Forever?"
"Not forever," Plushtrap corrected with a shrug. "But close. If it worked right, your body would stop aging around… eighteen or nineteen, maybe. You'd heal faster, stay strong no matter what happened. Sort of like being frozen in time — but still having natural growth for things like hair. You could live through any injury as long as it didn't completely destroy you."
Harry considered that. His heartbeat didn't quicken; there was no shock, no disbelief. Just logic, layering itself over opportunity.
"And the risks?"
"It's trickier than with me," Plushtrap admitted. "You've already got a soul. Animatronics don't. That means we can't just pour Remnant in — if we did that you would go insane, it has to be introduced carefully, slowly. Little by little, until your body accepts it. Five months, maybe more."
Harry nodded. "And if it works?"
Plushtrap's grin turned sharp. "Then you'll be something new. A living being with the strength of the dead and the precision of the machine. Immortal, more or less. And not one bit rotten."
Harry sat back, absorbing the idea. The thought of being unkillable didn't frighten him. It didn't even excite him. It simply made sense. If he wanted to keep working, to build, to create — he couldn't afford to die. And if becoming more than human was what it took, then so be it.
Plushtrap hopped up onto the desk, watching him closely. "You're not scared?" he asked, curious. "Most people would be."
Harry's expression didn't change. "Why would I be? I've already killed someone. That didn't change me. This won't either."
For a moment, the room was utterly still. Then Plushtrap laughed — a high, crackling sound that echoed faintly against the walls. "You really are something else, Harry."
Harry turned back to his notes, voice calm and precise. "Then we'll need to plan this out. You said five months?"
Plushtrap nodded, perching on the edge of the desk. "We start small — a drop at a time. You'll barely feel it at first. But by the end… the Remnant will be part of you. Your blood, your bones, even your thoughts."
Harry began writing again, sketching out a timeline with methodical precision. "And to do that, we'll need more Remnant than before."
"Much more," Plushtrap agreed. "Twice as much to start, maybe three times by the end. We'll need to get creative about finding it."
Harry tapped the pencil against the paper, already seeing pathways unfold — hospitals, abandoned places, unnoticed deaths. All clean, quiet, efficient. Nothing messy. Nothing uncontrolled.
Plushtrap leaned closer. "Hospitals might work, but the person would have to be lively. Remnant is pure soul — the older the body, the weaker the soul." His eyes flickered with interest. "We'll also need to build something — an injector that can hold the Remnant steady, keep it from burning through you too fast."
"I can make that," Harry murmured. "I already have most of the parts."
They worked in silence for a while — the kind of silence that only existed between true partners: unspoken understanding, shared purpose. Outside, the sky darkened, a soft gray-blue deepening into night. Streetlights buzzed faintly through the fog.
Finally, Plushtrap broke the quiet. "Once it's done," he said softly, "you won't have to worry about dying ever again. No one will be able to stop you."
Harry looked up, his green eyes reflecting the dim light. "That's the point."
Plushtrap smiled — a small, knowing curve of metal lips. "Then let's get started."
Harry tore the finished page from his notebook and pinned it to the wall above his bed. A simple title scrawled across the top:
Phase One — Integration.
The plan was set. The steps were clear.
Outside, the wind rattled the glass, and somewhere in the dark, a faint hum pulsed — like a heartbeat that wasn't entirely human.