Not Au Content - Blog Posts

"BUT THEY LOOK THE SAME!"

(Lol the comparison is the best)

Bill meets Bill (yes you read that right)

Featuring @unnoticedunawarestillhere 's version of Bill Danton (the guy on the left in the orange) meeting my version of Bill Danton (on the right with the Opossum under him)

GUYS. GUYS. HUDSON IS IN A STORY AGAIN?! WHAAAAAAAAAT?!

This is crazy good and it definitely represented Hudson really well during his last moments alive in the studio! A lot of this was referenced from the rp me and @creationandcalamityau did a month back!

A Meeting (gift)

A short story ft Clifford Conway and @unnoticedunawarestillhere 's oc Hudson! I really hope I did your boy justice in this! It was my first time writing him, so it might not be the greatest at the moment but I tried XD. Hope you like it!

Things had started getting hectic at the studio. Clifford had no idea what truly was going on, but he knew something was clearly wrong. Employees running around left and right, packing things in boxes, scrambling to get out of there like something was going to kill them, most of the employees looked miserable at best. 

Things were falling apart. 

Clifford was tasked with collecting some other Gent Equipment, such as tools and toolboxes left behind. He was searching for hours at this point, so many random hallways, it was like a corn maze with him expecting to have something jump out at him around every corner. 

In his search, he found only one toolbox, at least that he could find. He had passed numerous employees, many of which looked at him with looks of either hatred, disgust, disappointment, worry and just overall exhaustion. He certainly felt the last one, he had run up and down flights of stairs multiple times. 

Clifford had wandered into the sewers this time, he knew something had to be down here. 

And something there was, or better someone. 

A young writer sat at a desk, he seemed very tense. The writer was muttering to himself but didn’t notice Clifford at first. Clifford walked past him, shuddering a little at the odd sight. He watched the young man’s shoulders tense for a second. Clifford somehow dropped the wrench he had been holding on the floor, making a rather loud clang as it hit the tiled floor.

“Shit!” Clifford cursed under his breath, picking the wrench back up. 

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The writer shouted, his voice sounded rather rough like he had been yelling too much. He suddenly started coughing, Clifford winced a little, stumbling back a bit before he decided to sprint down further into the creepy sewers to find that toolbox. 

“People are weird here…” Clifford muttered to himself when he was a reasonable distance away from the rather angry writer. He sighed softly, seeing the second toolbox near the boiler room, along with an empty desk he passed, sheet music littering the desk. That was unusual but this studio seemed to be full of weirdos. 

Clifford went to retrieve the toolbox, it wasn’t too heavy thankfully. He walked back to where he saw that strange writer. The young man was still there, his brownish-black hair looked messier than it did when he first saw him. 

Clifford tried to keep going, but he was slightly concerned about the stranger. He knew he could sense him behind him. 

“Sorry about uh…dropping that wrench,” Clifford muttered quietly. The stranger coughed again, wheezing a little as if there was something stuck in his lungs like he had bronchitis or something. Clifford had the urge to scrub his hands with soap hard enough so he wouldn’t catch whatever this guy had. 

The stranger turned his head, looking at Clifford, he was tense, very tense. Clifford felt his hands clutch the handles of the toolboxes tighter. 

The young man stared at him for a second, not fully turned around. His hair obscured most of his face. He didn’t look so good. Clifford could tell by his pale, sickly-coloured skin. Though he himself was on the paler side, he at least looked healthy. 

“What do you want now?” The young man asked, he almost sounded like he was going to laugh or cry, or maybe both. 

“I just said sorry for bothering you. I will be on my way.”

The young man huffed, suddenly slamming his fist on the table, causing Clifford to jump a little, he backed up a bit more. He placed the toolboxes on the floor to give his arms a break. He wasn’t sure if he should run, even though his mind was screaming at him too, he stayed still, staring at the stranger. 

Maybe it was morbid curiosity or concern, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to leave, but he was afraid he’d get chased out of there by this weird writer. 

The young man suddenly stood up, he turned to look at Clifford, his dull dark brown eyes looked through him, not at him. Something was clearly wrong with this kid.

“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here bothering me?” The young man asked, his eyes narrowed slightly. Clifford could notice a smudge of black on the corner of his lips, which was odd. 

Clifford paused, trying to steady his breathing a bit. “I was just picking up extra Gent toolboxes.”

The writer approached him a bit more, suddenly looking around as if he heard something. 

“Please tell me you hear that too…” 

Clifford looked at him as if he was crazy, which that clearly was the case. As much as Clifford hated judging others, this kid was crazy, clearly insane. 

“What are you talking about?” Clifford asked, sounding clearly confused. 

The writer looked back at him, his eyes widened a little.

“The knocking in the walls. You don’t hear that?” 

Clifford shook his head, he wanted to run, he really did. But he was frozen here. He couldn’t move. 

The writer put his hands on his shoulders, looking at him with fear in his eyes.

“You have to hear the noises! Why don’t you hear them!?” He sounded like he was going to start crying. 

Clifford out of instinct pushed him off of him. “Don’t touch me, you weirdo! I don’t hear any noises!”

The writer blinked a little, coughing up some strange black liquid. Clifford was even more uncomfortable with this kid. He wanted to run away, he had to get out of there. 

“What, are you scared of me?” He grinned a little, his smile unsettled Clifford greatly. 

“No, I’m trying to do my job.”

The writer crossed his arms, he had a smug look on his face now, and the black liquid had trickled out of the side of his mouth a little. “And what’s that? Picking up toolboxes? That’s a pathetic job, is it not?”

“Yeah it’s dumb, but I’m helping pack up stuff for Gent. Maybe you should mind your own business, kid.” Clifford replied, sounding clearly annoyed. 

“Who are you calling, kid?”

“You, dummy. I’m calling you that.” Clifford replied with hardly any emotion in his voice, he tried to repress the feeling of annoyance that was slowly turning into anger. 

The writer laughed, sounding more like a wheeze than anything else.

“You think you scare me? You’re just another Gent Lacky.”

“I do enough work to provide for myself, I am not lacking in any way. Sure I am not the highest-ranking employee, but I work hard for what I earn. I think you should have more respect for workers like me.”

“Sure, whatever.” The writer replied nonchalantly, he was flipping a coin in the air now.

“I’m serious! I deserve some respect!” Clifford was getting frustrated with him now, he walked up to him, noticing how smug he looked at him. He flicked the coin suddenly in Clifford’s face. Clifford sighed heavily. 

“Have a Loonie, you look like you need it.” The writer said, that smug smile not leaving his face as he flicked the Loonie back at him again. Clifford was losing his patience with his kid. 

“Can you stop? Don’t want your Loonies!” 

“Come on! It’s one dollar in Canada! You aren’t scared of a single dollar are you?”

“I don’t care how much it's worth! Give me some respect!” 

The writer didn’t respond, he just flicked the Loonie back at Clifford. Clifford clenched his hand into a fist. He wasn’t the type to lash out at people, but this kid was driving him insane.

“I would stop if I were you, kid.”

“No! This is funny, you keep messing up the place and are the reason this damn studio is going to shit in the first place!”

“Don’t blame me for that! Maybe your idiot CEO should pay his damn bills.”

“Maybe you should stop ripping our studio apart!”

Clifford felt his shoulders tensing a bit, he glared at the young writer adjusting his glasses a bit. 

“Would you shut up!?” Clifford raised his voice a bit, he punched the writer in the face, he didn’t even realize it at first. 

He sort of stumbled back, looking down at the kid, he clutched the side of his face that Clifford had punched. 

The kid looked up at him, squinting a little in pain, his nose was bleeding now. Clifford looked at his fist, some blood splattered across his knuckles, even if he was wearing gloves, he could still see it. 

“What was that for!?” The writer muttered, grumbling a little in pain. He wiped the blood off of his face, staring at it on his hand for a moment, his hands were shaking. 

“I’m sorry…”

He backed up, and the kid stood back up, wiping his bloody hand on his pants before approaching Clifford. 

“Yeah? Oh wow, yeah you’re sorry! I’ll make you feel sorry for being born!” He attempted to punch Clifford, but little did he know Clifford knew how to box. He knew how to fight. He had done it before. 

Clifford squared up to prepare to fight. He glared at the young writer. 

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

But of course, the writer didn’t listen, he was too angry to listen. He threw a punch but much to his surprise, Clifford caught his fist. 

His eyes widened in surprise, Clifford didn’t move, he just held his fist, before shoving him back again. 

“Enough with this! I am sorry I punched you.” 

Clifford wasn’t expecting a reply. He watched the writer suddenly look guilty. 

“I’m sorry…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sounded meek. He backed up a bit, he seemed upset. Sad even. 

Clifford didn’t know what to say.  He started to regret punching him.

“Are you alright? I punched you pretty hard back there.” Clifford asked suddenly. The writer simply put his arms around himself, looking off to the side, some blood still smudged under his nose. 

“No…I’m a bit crazy…I’m so sorry.” 

A bit? Clifford thought though he didn’t want to say it out loud. 

“It’s okay, it is pretty hectic around here. Are you leaving like the other employees?”

The writer shook his head. “No…I can’t.”

Clifford didn’t want to push more, he just nodded. 

“I’m Clifford. What’s your name?”

“Err…Hudson.” The writer replied, trying to straighten his already wrinkled shirt. 

“Nice to meet you. Even if this is a rather awkward way to meet.”

Hudson tried to smile but he instead broke out into another coughing fit, coughing up strange black liquid, just like the stuff that leaked from that rickety machine Thomas once showed Clifford. The liquid was ink…

He shuddered a little but didn’t question it. He didn’t know how to ask if the liquid was ink. It could’ve been chocolate syrup that you put in milk, that thought made him feel slightly better, even if it was stupid. Of course, it wasn’t syrup, it was ink, it had to be ink. 

“Are you alright?” Was all he could think to ask, trying to ignore the fact that Hudson was indeed coughing up ink. 

Hudson wiped the ink from his mouth, nodding quickly. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m okay…”

He didn’t sound certain, but Clifford didn’t want to question it anymore. 

“How did this place get this hectic? I swear it wasn’t this bad the last time I was here.” Clifford asked suddenly, changing the subject in hopes of easing his worries. 

“A lot happened,” Hudson replied, he sighed heavily, looking down the hallway for a moment. “Too much to the point I can’t even remember. I don’t even know what happened, just this machine Mr. Drew has which keeps breaking down and taking a lot of money. I guess bankruptcy?” 

“Oh shit…” Clifford muttered. “That’s no good.”

“Yeah…But don’t take everything I say as truth, I don’t know exactly what’s happening.” Hudson replied, glancing back over briefly at a bottle of ink on his desk. 

“What job do you do here?” 

“I work in the Writers Department.” 

“Oh! That’s interesting! What exactly do you do?”

“I help write the scripts for the cartoons. I often come down here to get some quiet.” Hudson glanced away for a moment at the mention of coming down here. He was getting quiet but he also left to be down here because he didn’t want to get mocked by the other writers. He didn’t want to tell Clifford that though. 

“That must be a lot of work. I could never do that type of stuff, even if I am a bit of a dreamer myself, I can’t really find the time and energy to create something. I never really learned. But I look up to people who do!”

“It’s a lot of work, I’m glad you appreciate my work,” Hudson replied with a soft smile. Clifford smiled back, he was glad to brighten his spirits a bit. 

“It was nice to meet you. I should probably get going now. But I hope we cross paths sometime again!” Clifford said, picking up his toolboxes. 

“Yeah…that would be nice! Nice to meet you too!”

Hudson smiled, watching Clifford as he turned to leave. He sighed heavily, reaching for the bottle of ink on his desk. He drank some of it, coughing a bit on the horrible taste of ink burning his throat. 

He sat back at his desk, putting his head in his hands, he hated this, he wanted to stop drinking this awful ink, but he couldn’t. It hurt him, but he kept drinking it. 

He stared at the empty papers on his desk, ink splatters dripping onto them from his lips. He simply lowered his head, giving up on working on his script. 

His mind refused to shut up. He wished he told Clifford the truth, maybe he could’ve helped him, but it was too late. 

It was always too late it seemed…