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#Nightmare City

“Protrude hug!”

I hit a development snag on Nightmare City while I’ve been slowly flourishing a plot outline for X-Wasp. I’ve been sketching Tape Ghost and this college student character at work to just vent something out and hopefully get myself in the mood to develop more of Nightmare City. I know where it starts and where it ends, the meat behind it needs more time. I haven’t given them names yet but I felt like drawing something for them out.

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(( nightmare city babey

send nightmare city for a nightmare my muse has about yours

There are so many things that can and have gone wrong with this guy.

Sometimes it’s a simple bad dream, a recollection of the full reset and their first meeting afterwards. The blank stare given to him, the look of disdain which he had been only too aware would become a thing even before he came across him.

Sometimes more complex that time a memory, deliberately made faint from when he had his true argument with the other. The one that split their slowly begrudging friendship back to that of accquaintances.

There are times though.. when reality fades away. When he watches in sick fascination as Smoke… Red… 

Both are pushed together into the same persona, When he looks up into that slitted gaze and sees rather than bored indifference or that almost sweet look he got to see for a split moment that last time he saw Red… rather than either of those, he gets to see true hatred. 

A corrupted memory, when Smoke destroyed Shorty’s anomaly properly, but this time he pushes them back in and watches as they take residence completely in the corrupted husk that once housed his own soul.

A glance into the could be’s the possibilities of the future now there is one. Where he manages to say the one thing that turns Smoke from bemused tolerance to true desire to kill. He knows. He knows that one correct hit and not even the new ability he was given from Lucky would save him. Whether he’d suffer for it or not wouldn’t matter.

But it would be a release from that glare. From the words spat at him that he knows are only too truthful.

Betrayal. Shame. Disgust.

He deserves them and he knows it, but it doesn’t stop the sick feeling in the bottom of his rib cage as he stares up, trying to find the words to plead for mercy, knowing he neither deserves it nor will receive it.

In some ways it’s a blessing when he sees the blow coming, he knows he’lleither dust or wake up..

On occasion though, the nightmare continues, as though by a special power determined to keep him alive through it, he watches as the blow misses, deliberately, striking a knife through his hands, keeping him watching as the other pulls those he knows best away from him, a way to keep them safe. Whether or not they need it.

The only thing he is aware of as they fade from the distance, is the lingering scent of Smoke’s cigarettes… and a secondary scent of blue raspberry.

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[atrocious-fell-child]: nightmare (if u want-)


Send nightmare city for a nightmare my muse has about yours.

It’s the same as always. The underground is dead. Deserted. All monsters bar himself and one other known are either dust, or cowering away in a place that the anomaly can’t get to. He knows it well. He knows he’s the last defence. The last chance the Underground has.

Asgore is… strong, but so gentle. So unaware of the true dangers this creature possesses.  Humans. He wants to say it’s a human, but… he’s not sure if he’s honest. Can humans really be -this- ruthless all alone? Perhaps he deserves it. He’s killed enough of them himself in his time, his soul pulses sharply. 

He stands still, the part of this run he hates the most. Waiting. Waiting for them to show. Waiting for them to step forwards. To lift their head and give him that age old smirk that tells him they know exactly what he’s about to say and they don’t care. He says it anyway, but…

That’s not them. That’s not -his- anomaly. The longer hair from years spent underground isn’t there. The slowly growing form of the young teen changed and shifted. Even in their younger days though.. this isn’t…

The eyes are different. The look on their face though.. it’s the same. 

It’s the look that says they mean business and they’re going to finish what they’ve started. Determination. It’s a wonderful thing.. and a terrifying thing.

He can feel his soul still, the usual tiny shifts from his movement completely gone as he stares into the face of his new adversary. The knife looks the same though. Thickly coated with the dust of his frie…

No. not his friends. They don’t know him that well in this run. It’s all reset again.

He looks around with a weary expression, but… this isn’t the underground is it? The area shifting and morphing to the surface, and he knows now…

he knows this time is different. If they win.. it’s not his underground he’s going to lose.

It’s everyone. Everything he’s worked to gaining and keeping, and starting to believe and trust in…

They’re going to destroy them all.

That smirk on their face as they step forwards makes him feel ill. If he could throw up he would. Skeletons can’t throw up though right? They can’t cry either, that liquid on his face isnt’ tears. It’s just the rain. It has to be. There’s nothing he can do.

He watches them step fowards, knife drawn, he’s just so.. tired. So tired of losing it all, and even though giving up is the worst thing he could possibly do… he knows he’s going to…

It’s just as he sees the shine of the blade slicing towards him that he always wakes up though.

Those are the worst dreams… and the presence of the genocider has given true form to his worst fears coming to reality.

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((Nightmare City...? 👀

Send nightmare city for a nightmare my muse has about yours.

It’s the same old story, and yet he never really gets used to it. He curls up on his sofa, knowing, knowing only too well, that if he closes his eyes, hes’ going to fall asleep. Sleep can bring one of two things. Good dreams.. or bad dreams.

In the good dreams, he’s amongst friends and loved ones and everythings fine.

in the bad dreams… terrors, horrors, nightmares… call them what you want, his imagination gets a little more creative.

Pippap definitely features strongly in some of those, the tall skeleton he’d grown close to, started to look on as a sort of make shift brother, someone he could trust, someone he could curl up to with no concerns about them wanting anything more than friendship and companionship.

But when the lights seem to dim he knows. He knows what’s about to happen and he can’t prevent it.

Can’t prevent the look of disdain as the taller of the skeletons turns around and glares at him. Informing him that he knows the truth now. Knows that whatever happens. Sans can’t keep him safe. There’s shadows in the room that pull him backwards. tiny threads of fate that won’t let him keep the other away from the danger that threatens. He’s got to watch quietly, as the other turns and walks away into the darkness that looms over him. Knowing that when he returns…

And there’s the second half of the nightmare. Sometimes it follows the first, sometimes it’s just there.

He sees the red monster and moves to greet him, to give him a hug. Only to have the other turn and look down in jovial but polite confusion. Has he got him mixed up with some other Papyrus? Unfortunate.

The words of greeting falter and fail before they even make their way out of his mouth. That look of not forgetting but of never having known him in the first place.

It tears at his soul. Creating cracks and fractures that a simple weapon can not. It’s what causes the true permament cracks. The cracks of being forgotten, of never having existed whether he has those memories as proof or not.

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Thanks hyperfocus I’m re-obsessed with a flash animation from 2005.

Yes hi I’m the guy making fan-characters for something that’s been dead for 13 years.

I’m being sarcastic, of course, this is pretty awesome. There’s so much I love about those flashes, and it takes me back to some of the things I loved in media when I was a bit younger, and still do - fast-paced action, playful psychosis, summoned weapons, etc. 

To be honest, Nightmare City’s always fascinated me and made me wish there were more. More lore. More flashes. More to explore. More to see. Just, more. 

And in the years since then I was really slow to make my own stuff. Too many interests, too many problems. Now I’m getting ready to spend the next few years doing the stuff I could have been, and more. So, well, we’ll see. Maybe these guys will get drawn once or twice and that’s it. But I wanna do more with them - to make a little offshoot of sorts. I’m not an animator yet, but I can draw, and I’m hoping to get a new tablet soon. It’d be fun to make a comic or something. Maybe a little odd, since the stuff I’m basing this on is high on adrenaline and low on words, but I think I can still make something cool as fuck. 

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Schlock-tober 2018, entry #7:

“Nightmare City” (aka “City of the Walking Dead,” 1980)

A radioactive spill turns city dwellers into a horde of ultra-violent, throat slashing, machine-gunning,  blood drinking zombies. Can a TV news reporter and his wife get out of the city before it’s completely overrun by the monsters?

Umberto Lenzi’s action-packed, late-inning “Dawn of the Dead” knock off has been one of my favorite Italian sleaze-n-splatter flicks for years, in spite of its many flaws. It’s certainly never dull - it gets off to a ridiculous start and then keeps the WTF meter jammed into the red for its entire run time. Plot holes abound, the English dialogue is awkward, the dubbing sucks, the makeup and gore FX are hilariously cheap, and the ending is a total cop-out. Make no mistake, this movie is terrible… but it’’s so terrible that it’s actually kind of awesome.

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