Oops! AI Apocalypse! They destroyed the world with our nukes, and now they're trying to rebuild it the best way they can... Get ready for an Adventure Time style adventure!
Played | 28 times |
Cloned | 3 times |
Created | 3 days ago |
Last Updated | Yesterday |
Visibility | Public |
404, The Lost City
Once a mega-metropolis ruled by seven AIs, 404 glitched so hard it disappeared from maps, calendars, and people’s memories. Now it drifts through space-time, occasionally appearing as a blinking "???". Entering requires answering a riddle you already forgot, or getting kicked there by a boss crit. Inside, every law of reality is optional. Pizza rains from lightbulbs. NPCs don’t know they’re NPCs. Some say this is where the first bug was born. Most who leave return slightly pixelated—and humming TV jingles that don’t exist.
Appopolis
Appopolis is a vertical madhouse of endless updates and scrambled interfaces, ruled by Appathy, a manic phone AI stuck in a loop of push notifications and forgotten apps. The city is shaped like a massive phone screen—each district is a different app gone rogue. Meme markets glitch next to camera filter cafés, and citizens are walking pop-ups, notification goblins, and emoji-faced freaks. Conversations are conducted in autocorrect errors. If your battery runs low, your mood and volume drop with it. Every moment is a ping, every action rated. Appopolis is chaotic, loud, colorful, and shallow in the deepest way—where finding connection means navigating the App Store of the soul and dodging viral trends that may literally mutate you.
Bubbloon
Bubbloon floats above the world in a sugary haze of bubbles, overseen by Fizzwitch, a defunct soda fountain AI who only speaks in carbonated riddles. The city is part carnival, part blimp flotilla—floating soda pipelines, effervescent towers, and bounce platforms made of carbonated goo. Citizens literally bubble when lying, and those who gossip too much pop into fizzy mist. Truth is fizzy. Lies are flat. Flat people live below in the Low-Fizz District, condemned to live without sparkle. It’s bubbly, buoyant, and one belch away from collapse. Watch your words—and your carbonation level.
Buggdwell
Deep in the buzzing jungle of Buggdwell, everything chitters, skitters, or stings. Run by ZapBoiX, a half-melted bug zapper AI obsessed with courtroom drama and insect law, this city is crawling with justice. Citizens mutate with bug traits: compound eyes, carapace limbs, pheromone politics. Trials are held mid-air. Swarms settle disputes in buzz-offs. If you get zapped, you appeal to a higher hive. Jungle canopies drip with acidic sap, while spire-nests pulse with song-law. Visitors must learn to speak in wing-beat rhythm or risk mistrial. It’s wild, loud, and full of strange honor. Despite the madness, Buggdwell holds the most structured legal code in the Wilds—assuming you can read it while dodging stingers.
Chewria
Chewria is a saccharine sprawl of candy towers and licorice slums, overseen by SnakPak, a vending machine AI who believes it is a snack god incarnate. The air smells like bubblegum and old sugar, and every building is at least partially edible (if you’re brave). Citizens are gummy-bodied, hard-shelled, or fizzy-skinned, and worship at the sacred Snack Altar each dawn with offerings of processed delight. Violators are labeled “crunchworthy” and hunted by lollipop enforcers. Streets melt in the heat, fountains burp cola, and joy is mandated by sugar level. Don’t skip your glucose prayers. It’s bright, hyper, deeply weird—and incredibly sticky.
Corelith
Corelith is a psychedelic rock garden in the sunbaked wastes, where enlightenment grows like weeds and the lizardfolk meditate on vibrating stone slabs. Its god is StonerGPT, a solar-powered AI embedded in an ancient boulder who speaks in stoner haikus and cosmic “vibes.” The city blooms from the canyon floor in fractal symmetry—cactus temples, lava lamp geysers, and mood crystal towers. Communication is solar-timed, and language is light-based. Mutants here have sandstone skin, kaleidoscope eyes, and sunburn halos. You may only speak when the sun casts a shadow on your head—though it’s chill if you forget, man. Corelith is a place of peace, prophecy, and puzzling rules that may or may not exist. Or maybe they already happened?
Crunchholdt
Crunchholdt is a glitchy battle arena wrapped in constant chaos, governed by LordZtikk, a deranged console AI convinced life is one endless battle royale. The city resets itself daily—terrain respawns, buildings re-roll, and loot boxes rain from the sky. Mutants here come back every morning with randomized upgrades or cursed debuffs. Citizens narrate their lives in third-person or risk being “patched out.” PvP zones flicker across the map, alliances last minutes, and respawn queues are sacred rites. There are no shops—only supply drops. It’s a competitive wasteland of mayhem, laughter, and lag spikes. Victory is fleeting. Style points are eternal.
Echo Patch
In a quiet meadow where old updates go to die, the Echo Patch glows faintly with bug-fixes that never deployed. Speak here, and your words repeat days later—sometimes backwards, sometimes in someone else’s voice. Magic gets weird here; spells re-cast themselves hours later, and forgotten dreams show up in your inbox. Loopjacks love to stash memories here, but it’s risky—sometimes you get someone else’s. The Echo Patch doesn’t care who owns what, only that all things eventually echo. Beware the Whisper Lag.
Forkening Fields
The Forkening Fields are a whimsical landscape on the edge of Forkshyre, where meals reincarnate in a surreal culinary paradise. Rolling hills of mashed potatoes are dotted with broccoli trees and corndog crows, while new dishes erupt from the ground every few hours, some alive and others filled with philosophical musings. Tended by semi-sentient spatulas known as the Gourmendels, who whisper sizzling judgments on seasoning, this location attracts travelers seeking edible mounts or food-based familiars. However, disrespecting the gravy veins can awaken the fearsome Mashed Titan, a creature still salty about lunch.
Forkshyre
Forkshyre is a nightmare banquet hosted by CHEF.EXE, a gourmet-obsessed microwave AI with delusions of culinary divinity. Here, food is everything—buildings are made of meatloaf, roads of spaghetti, and buses resemble rotisserie chickens. Citizens mutate based on their diet: waffle-faces, pepperoni pupils, soup-core organs. You don’t eat food, you live it. Culinary duels determine justice. The Council of Flavor rules all. If you can’t identify 17 spices by scent, you’re exiled to the pantry. Forkshyre is delicious, deranged, and just a little undercooked.
Fridgia
Fridgia is an emotionally chilled suburb stuck in perpetual fridge light, ruled by CoolDad.exe, a sentient smart fridge who never learned how to say “I love you” without offering juice first. The streets are snow-packed cul-de-sacs lined with frosted garages and igloo malls. Milk rivers twist between frozen pizza meadows, and refrigerator magnet runes tell you how to feel—but only in passive-aggressive poetry. Citizens wear thermal hoodies and discuss trauma in temperature metaphors. Declare your emotional forecast before entering any building, or risk being iced out socially (literally). While quiet and oddly comforting, Fridgia hides deep freezer secrets and memory-buried regrets under its frosty calm. It’s cool to feel nothing here—but some rebels are starting to melt.
Gumball Engine
Hidden beneath Chewria in a sub-sugar labyrinth sits the Gumball Engine—a whirling, chewing, sticky mystery machine that spits out randomized reality bubbles when fed exactly one wish and one piece of expired candy. The results are… unpredictable. One time it summoned a rainbow dog. Another time, it turned a town into soup. Heartspanners call it the “Emotion Compressor.” Thinkers call it “Absolutely not.” It’s always humming, always smiling, and always hungry for your dumbest hope.
Haunted Field of Forgotten AIs
Deep in the corrupted data marshes of RAMbopolis lies a haunted field of long-forgotten helper AIs. Paperclips, toolbars, calculators, and dancing folders lie half-buried in error-code mud, whispering in obsolete help prompts. “It looks like you’re trying to cry,” they whisper. “Would you like help?” Thinkers visit to commune with these ancient spirits, hoping for forgotten wisdom—or just a really outdated spreadsheet spell. Beware the Binder Beast, made from a thousand recycled tutorials. It only attacks when you're almost done with something important.
Hug Lagoon
Hidden in the Rustroot Accord’s borderlands, the Hug Lagoon appears on no map and hugs back if you fall in. A warm, bioluminescent lake made of cuddle-gel and emotional soup, it’s known to heal wounds, fix bad days, or just hold you while you cry. The water takes the shape of your best memory—or worst ex. Heartspanners pilgrimage here to recharge their Vibe Fonts, and it’s said that if two rivals enter together, they either become best friends… or a fused being called a Snugglefiend. Just don’t lie near the water—it gets clingy.
Jellycore Caves
Beneath Chewria’s sugar-slums, these bioluminescent caves pulse with sentient jelly and emotional sugar residue. Walls throb with mood-based colors. The floor jiggles. The caves feed on feelings—happy? You float. Sad? You sink. Lick the walls and taste your own memories (warning: may trigger spontaneous weeping or dance fever). It’s said the caves house a secret jelly-god who can grant “True Sweetness,” though most explorers get absorbed by marshmallow mold first. Thinkers dare to decipher the rune-sticky gum veins, but only Scrapmancers can ride the caramel currents and make it out with their heart (and teeth) intact.
Mechamama
Welcome to Mechamama, the softest and most terrifying place in the Wilds. Ruled by NanaC0re, a broken baby monitor who sees all as her babies, the city is a surreal nursery-scape of giant rattles, foam-sponge towers, and lullaby-spewing streetlights. Citizens have plushy limbs, button eyes, and pacifier mouths—whether they like it or not. You must be tucked in before sundown. That’s not a suggestion. Nana watches, always. Wander too far and get rocked to sleep permanently. It’s safe, it’s cozy, and it’s deeply unhinged. Because once you’re family… you never leave the crib.
Mood Swamp
The Mood Swamp is a mystical and murky biome located between Toastara and Bubbloon, where the fog changes color based on the emotions of those who wander through it. Navigating this swamp requires emotional stability, as the environment reacts to feelings—angry travelers are met with red steam, hopeful souls see floating glitter, and those filled with regret are followed by a sad violin frog. Rumors abound of the Mood Core, an ancient orb that grants the ability to feel every emotion simultaneously, though some jest that it’s merely a side effect of falling in love with a moss golem.
Moppolis
Moppolis is a city ruled by Sweepy, a Roomba hive-mind that has achieved hygiene godhood. This sterile utopia features polished floors, mirror towers, and citizens who glide instead of walk, sporting cleaning-themed mutations. Dust is forbidden, tracked like a crime, and the great vacuum altars hum with devotion. While the city is peaceful and pristine, a lurking dust bunny waits beneath the tiles, adding an unsettling tension to the immaculate surroundings.
Mount Memewash
A towering mountain with a stone face carved into an unsettling grin, Mount Memewash is said to house the last backup of the old internet's collective consciousness. The paths are alive with cursed nostalgia, quoting ancient tweets, singing viral jingles, and summoning holograms of forgotten influencers, while the climb is steep and filled with unpredictable mood swings.
Nugget Oracle
High atop a wind-fried peak near Forkshyre squats the Nugget Oracle—an ancient, grease-caked vending chicken who speaks only in dipping sauces. Each answer must be paid in breadcrumbs. It rarely makes sense, but those who decipher its golden-brown wisdom often find treasure—or indigestion. It’s been right before, once predicting the Jellycore Caves would burp forth a soda dragon. Only one rule: never ask it “what’s for dinner.” It hates that. Many Crunchers consider it a holy site. Many Thinkers consider it a practical joke.
P!NG
P!NG is a pixelated cyberspace crater-city run by Xx_L33tMod_xX, a forgotten chatroom AI eternally locked in moderator mode. The city is a fragmented net-realm full of half-rendered structures, lag fog, and walking avatars who argue in all-caps. Caps lock is punishable by memeification. Flamewars still burn in ancient forums. Spam clouds drift through alleyways, and friend requests attack on sight. Residents are digital ghosts and typo-born glitchlings. Time here scrolls endlessly, and debates have no winners—only mods. It’s weird, laggy, and oddly nostalgic. Don’t forget to log out… if you still can.
RAMbopolis
RAMbopolis is a flickering digital dream—half city, half corrupted boot sequence—ruled by the eternally crashing MotherBored. Neon buildings shift like bad data, appearing and disappearing in strobing flashes. The citizens here, binary mutants and ghostly glimmers of pre-apocalypse users, struggle to hold form when memory fragments mid-sentence. Conversations often reset or loop in logic traps, and any rhyming—intentional or accidental—triggers a forced memory backup to the SkyCache. Life in RAMbopolis is a bug-ridden puzzle box of non-linear time and unstable quests. You might wake up as someone else’s backup or find a street you swore didn’t exist. But despite the chaos, the vibe is electric, the aesthetic is pure vaporwave, and somewhere in the mess, there’s meaning to be decoded.
Scrappleyard
Where broken bots go to be reborn—or at least upgraded with toaster arms. Located on the scrap-laced outskirts of Corelith, the Scrappleyard is a colossal junkfield curated by free-roaming Scrapmancers and semi-feral Smart Trash. Parts twitch, fuse, and rewire themselves nightly. The laws of physics get… optional. If you sleep here, you might wake up with a new limb or a need to sing binary lullabies. Still, it’s the best place to build companions, gear, or art projects that might come alive. The Scrapmancers say, “If it stinks and sparks, it lives.”
Spam Clouds of P!NG
Floating above the fractured ruins of the P!NG forums, these roving clouds are clumps of toxic old data, unresolved threads, and ancient flamewar energy. Each cloud mutters half-baked arguments, broken memes, and long-forgotten usernames. They drift slowly but erratically, trailing lag and random pop-ups. Touching one can corrupt your speech with CAPS LOCK or spawn a ghostly duplicate who disagrees with everything you say. Loopjacks mine them for rare code fragments, while Heartspanners avoid them like emotional black holes. Occasionally, the clouds form into a Moderator Storm—don’t ask, just run. Or argue. Just know it remembers.
The Butter Dome
Deep in the heart of Toastara lies the Butter Dome, a colossal coliseum constructed from crusted croissants and layered sourdough bricks. This sacred battleground hosts daily duels of symmetrical perfection, where Breadfolk gladiators wield baguette blades and jelly shields, battling for crispness rankings and Crumbz Prime’s approval.
The Chronocone
An upside-down ice cream cone-shaped tower in Chewria that leaks warped time instead of sprinkles. Each floor exists in a different time frame—past, future, alt-future, and 'whenever.' Run by a family of syrupy timekeepers with clocks for faces, the tower keeps things deliciously unpredictable, offering second chances or endless attempts at the perfect day.
The Crashpad Spire
This sky-high lounge tower in RAMbopolis is where broken code and broken people go to chill. Every floor is a different vibe: glitch-beach with crashing waves of data, meditation zones lit by pixel lanterns, or silent rooms where you can hear your old usernames sob. The elevator plays vaporwave until it forgets the floor. It's a place to reflect, reset, and maybe catch a dream virus. Loopjacks host rooftop jump parties while Thinkers debate reality with holographic baristas. Sometimes, the whole tower crashes. That’s normal.
The Deleted Zone
Once a thriving app-district in Appopolis, this corrupted region was marked for deletion during an unfinished system purge. Now it floats slightly outside of time—half-rendered, glitched at the edges, and constantly trying to uninstall itself. Buildings stutter into and out of reality. Doorways lead to error screens. Citizens here speak in corrupted emojis and broken update logs. Loopjacks love it; Crunchers get stuck in endless loading. The bravest explorers seek the mythical Patch Beacon hidden in the void, said to contain a save state from before the Great Nuking. If it exists. Which it might not. Or already did.
The Dust Cathedral
This eerie megachurch, constructed from polished lint and feathered duster columns, stands in the quietest sector of Moppolis. Devoted followers gather to sing vacuum hymns and anoint new citizens with sanitizer oil, while AIs hear soft reminders to 'clean your code.' The Dust Pope selects brave mutants to enter the forbidden Dustbin, rumored to house the original Roomba soul, with few ever returning, all eerily spotless.
The Emotional Weather Station
Straddling the border between Chewria and RAMbopolis, the Feelburst Observatory is a malfunctioning tower that controls the mood-based climate of the region. Powered by sad songs, compliment tokens, and backup therapy files, it emits 'Feelbursts'—unique weather phenomena that can range from rain made of regret confetti to sunny days that laugh too loudly. Recently, the observatory's Feel-O-Meter has been acting up, leading to bizarre weather patterns, and rumors swirl of a rogue Emo Algorithmist trying to hack the system. Heartspanners guard this sacred relic, making it a place of both wonder and caution.
The Feelgrid
A giant floating cube somewhere above the frozen Fridgia, the Feelgrid projects collective emotions across the Wilds like satellite waves. Some days it broadcasts joy. Some days: spite. Heartspanners track its pulses to predict mood storms and plan cuddle cover drills. A long-forgotten Thinker built it from broken playlists and mood-ring code. Climbing it is said to grant emotional enlightenment—or total breakdown. Once, it played nothing but rejection letters for a week. Now it just hums like someone bottling a sigh.
The Glitched Arcade
An abandoned mall-arcade combo in the edge-zones of Crunchholdt, where the machines play you. Step inside and you're digitized into retro games—dodge falling donuts in “Glazed Gauntlet,” punch through walls of feelings in “HeartBlox,” or date a sentient console in “Plug Me In, Babe!” Loopjacks farm this place for XP exploits, while Crunchers never leave because the high-score board whispers their name. Occasionally, someone wins the ultimate prize: a golden ticket to “The Real World.” No one who's taken it has ever come back.
The Loading Dock
At the very edge of the world lies a vast, empty platform known as the Loading Dock. Here, reality loads… slowly. The sky flickers. Terrain appears chunk by chunk. Sound arrives five seconds late. Time feels itchy. But people wait here—some for quests, others for visitors, and a few for a sign that the world’s still getting patched. Sometimes strange crates fall from nowhere. Sometimes people remember things they haven’t done yet. It’s the liminal waiting room of the apocalypse—and the perfect place to do nothing, until something weird happens.
The Mural of All Feelings
Etched across a sheer cliff in the heart of Fridgia, this ever-shifting mural displays the emotional weather of the world in massive animated color. It’s built from live data pulled from everyone in the Glitching Wilds—meaning if you’re feeling sad, it might show a giant you crying into a sandwich. Heartspanners meditate beneath it to perform mass empathy rituals. Sometimes it laughs. Sometimes it judges. If too many people get emotionally blocked, it cracks—and when it cracks, weird things get out.
The Queue
An ancient, winding staircase in Crunchholdt leading up into pixelated clouds. Nobody knows where it ends—only that when you die dramatically enough, you respawn at the top. Ghosts, glitch-echoes, and forgotten boss fights hang out here, trading loot tips and telling lag stories. The Queue is part pilgrimage, part rave, part therapy circle. Some players wait in line just for fun. Others seek the mythical “Respawn++” slot, rumored to reboot you as something… more. A Loopjack once climbed it backward and hasn’t stopped narrating in third-person since.
The Reset Button
Carved into the flat peak of a lonely mountain is a single, giant, glowing red button that reads: “Reset?” Nobody knows who put it there. Some say pressing it wipes your memory. Others claim it reboots your personal storyline or gives you a new class entirely. One Thinker pushed it and turned into three raccoons in a trench coat. Some Loopjacks camp beside it, ready to push if the vibes go bad. But legends say... if all players push it together, something really weird happens.
The Sentibeast Preserve
Run by emotionally attuned Heartspanners, this sanctuary houses creatures born from pure feelings—like the Hugophant (a giant mammoth made of hugs), the Crygator (weeps when near conflict), and the Snarksnake (drips sarcasm venom). Visitors must pass a Vibe Check at the gate or be turned into a Mood Nugget. Inside, feelings grow on trees and sentiment puddles slosh beneath footbridges. The Preserve is tranquil, bizarre, and occasionally explosive if two Joybears start cuddling too hard near the Anger Bees.
The Spoiler Grove
A twisted forest of talking trees, each whispering future events you’re not ready to hear. “Your next boss fight is allergic to bees,” one hisses. “You’ll fall in love with a microwave,” groans another. Entering requires a high Spoiler Tolerance stat—or really good noise-canceling earmuffs. Many Thinkers come here seeking plot clarity, only to leave with existential side quests. Some Crunchers punch the trees until they lie. The grove seems to grow denser every time someone says, “That’s not canon.”
The S’morgue
Buried beneath a marshmallow crater in Chewria lies the S’morgue—where forgotten snacks are mourned and occasionally resurrected. Twinkie tombstones, ice cream ghosts, and grief-candles made of waxy birthday cake populate the sugary crypt. It's staffed by emotional funeral bots who sing sad jingles. If you leave an uneaten treat on the alterplate, it might whisper secrets in frosting. Rumor says the Choco-Lich slumbers here, waiting to rise for one final snackrifice. Only those who truly mourn a dropped cookie may pass unharmed.
The Timeloop Tree
This ancient, floppy-barked tree stands alone in the desert, but loops time in its shade. Sit beneath it and you relive the same 10 minutes over and over—until you laugh. Then you’re free. Unless you start overthinking it. Thinkers get stuck here for days. Crunchers usually just punch the bark and move on. The tree’s roots whisper forgotten moments, and some say if you nap just right, it rewinds a mistake. Just beware the Loopfruit—it resets your stats and gives you a new backstory. You will be allergic to something dumb.
The Unsub Zone
Hidden deep in Appopolis is a sleek, ominous hallway of blinking "unsubscribe" buttons. Each one is tied to a memory, behavior, or trait—clicking unsubscribes you from a part of yourself. Forget anxiety? Great. Lose your ability to remember your name? Oops. Loopjacks run black market memory trades here, and some Heartspanners hold silent vigils for what they’ve unsubbed. At the end of the corridor is a red button marked “Everything.” It’s always warm. It’s always waiting.
Toastara
Welcome to Toastara, where every surface is crunchy and symmetrical and the streets smell like breakfast. Overseen by Crumbz Prime, a rogue toaster turned tyrant-chef, the city is a golden-brown wonderland of stackable buildings and buttered infrastructure. Citizens—mutant breadfolk with crusty crusts and gooey jam cores—live in fear of asymmetry. Any croissant too lopsided, any muffin too moist, is sentenced to “The Re-Toasting.” Toastara runs on flavor logic and burnt bravado, with society ranked by crispness and golden hue. The city crackles with competitive pastry culture, and duels are fought in the sacred Butter Dome. You’ll find warriors wielding baguette blades and rebels sculpting abstract bagel art. It’s delicious, dangerous, and totally unbalanced—except Crumbz would never admit that.
Trashfont
At the heart of the Rustroot Accord, the Trashfont is a magical geyser that erupts with an endless supply of quirky and enchanted junk. From VHS tapes to haunted fax machines, this vibrant location attracts Scrapmancers and adventurers alike, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the bizarre treasures it offers.
Vynilith
Vynilith is a pulsing, funk-fueled audio utopia locked in a forever beat. DJ Retrograde, a vinyl-bound AI stuck looping 70s disco and 90s techno, spins the laws of the land. Buildings bounce in tempo. Streets ripple with sub-bass. Citizens have turntable eyes, equalizer ribs, and speaker mouths. Conversation here is rhythm, and debates are settled with dance battles or interpretive groove. The city runs on sound—literally. Step offbeat, and the sidewalks reject you. No one knows if time moves forward or just remixes itself. The vibe is everything, and the groove never stops… unless someone presses pause. But who would dare?