Epic Mickey rpg : corruptive nightmare

Day one of rpg

Au/n Please note I used a program called ai rpg to do this please don't be angry at me I'm doing this for fun
The cover art is not mine it belongs to twisted wind
All charecters belong to Disney
All lines marked with -< were written by me to advance the game
Please enjoy

You're elbow-deep in the rusted guts of a broken projector when Oswald's boot nudges your side. "Still fiddling with that junk?" he says, voice muffled behind his scarf as he squints through cracked goggles at the horizon. The locket around his neck clicks open—just a habit, you've noticed—before he snaps it shut again. Somewhere in the wasteland's perpetual twilight, a spliced reel of Steamboat Willie glitches on a half-collapsed billboard, your own face melting into static. You wipe grease on your overalls and heft the paintbrush. "Gotta fix what we can," you say, but the flicker in Oswald's jaw says he's counting the things you can't.

A squeal of metal echoes from the hollowed-out diner across the street. Both of you freeze—too rhythmic to be wind. Oswald's remote sparks in his palm as he ducks behind an overturned truck. You press against the corroded bumper, watching the diner's neon sign buzz to life: *EATS*. The *T* sputters, revealing the spliced wires beneath. "Machines don't wake up hungry," Oswald mutters. Something scrapes against linoleum inside—deliberate, like it's dragging silverware.

(Start of animate cutlery abomination encounter )

> You ask Oswald what they should do

Oswald's fingers tighten around the remote, his ears twitching toward the diner's broken window. "Options? We run—or we find out what's repurposing that kitchen." His voice drops lower as a clatter of pots echoes from inside. "Smells like old grease and ozone in there. Means it's mechanical, not organic. Your brush could dissolve the plating if we get cornered." He doesn't wait for your reply—just adjusts his goggles with a sharp *click* and creeps forward, scarf fluttering over exposed servo joints in his arm. The diner's door swings on one hinge, squealing like a wounded animal.

> Follow behind him quietly so as not to alert whomever is making the noise

The corroded floorboards groan under Oswald's weight as he slips inside, his scarf catching on a nail before he yanks it free. You follow, paintbrush tip already glowing faintly—not enough to alert whatever's moving in the kitchen, but ready. The diner's interior smells of scorched wiring and rancid oil, the countertop sticky with decades-old syrup. Behind the swinging kitchen doors, something metallic *clicks* in a sequence too precise to be random. Oswald freezes mid-step, ears pivoting like radar dishes. A flicker of blue static dances across his remote's screen—it's not just detecting machinery. It's *translating* something. "It's... humming," he whispers. Then the kitchen doors burst open in a shower of sparks, revealing a hunched mass of fused cutlery and meat grinder blades, its single eye—a cracked diner clock face—rolling wildly in its socket.

> Motion to Oswald to watch your back as you motion closer to the abomination

You raise a gloved hand—slow, deliberate—and Oswald nods, his ears flattening as he takes position beside a toppled soda fountain, remote crackling with suppressed energy. The cutlery abomination shudders forward, its clock-face eye whirring as fractured silverware limbs scrape against the tiles. You step into its path, paintbrush humming as you sweep a thin line of dissolving energy across the floor—just enough to make the creature hesitate. It rears back with a screech of grinding metal, gears inside its makeshift body stuttering. Oswald's voice cuts through the din, "It's not attacking—it's *protecting* something." Behind the monster, the kitchen's fryer bubbles with unnatural luminance, casting jagged shadows of forks and knives fused into the walls like some grotesque shrine.

> Try to decipher what it's protecting

The abomination's clock-eye ticks erratically as you edge closer, paintbrush raised defensively. Behind its clattering limbs, the fryer's glow pulses like a sickly heartbeat, illuminating stacks of film canisters—some cracked open, their celluloid strips spilling out like entrails. Oswald's remote suddenly emits a garbled burst of static, translating the creature's metallic whines into fractured words: "No... touch... *hers*." The last word stretches unnaturally, accompanied by a flicker of projected light from the fryer—a ghostly image of Ortensia's face, warped and glitching. The abomination lunges forward but stops short, its blade-fingers twitching as if fighting its own programming.