WTTQ CHANNEL 10 NEWSFLASH

 “Tonight on The Evening Drift: Cats, Aliens, and the Queen of Postcards?”

Name: Trenton Glass (Reporting the bizarre as if it's completely ordinary)
Occupation: Anchor, WTTQ Channel 10
Style: Mid-century mod suits, holographic tie clips, always backlit like it’s prime time in 1962
Voice: Velvet-smooth, low-pitched with perfect enunciation — even when the world is ending
Catchphrase: “Where fashion meets fear.”

What do you mean the cats are not cats?

TRENTON GLASS (smiling, deadpan):
"Good evening, Second Life Sector 7 and all adjacent layers. Our top story tonight: Are your cats watching you, or watching for someone else?"

"Fashion queen and digital folklore figure Anjelikka made headlines again today after claiming — quote — the cats are not cats. They are mirrors in meat suits."

"This claim, dismissed by most sane entities, gained traction after a postcard was found at the WTTQ mailbox addressed to ‘Our Future Feline Overlords.’"

DANDY (holding lentil soup, exasperated):
“Look, I’m all for weird. I once DJ’d a sock auction during a memory collapse. But if cats are aliens? Then the soup is a firewall. And I’ve been eating it raw.”

This is not a cat

Trenton: "When asked for further comments, Anjelikka simply said: 'They purr in encryption.'"

ANJELIKKA (to no one in particular):
“They’re not cats, you know. Not really. They just wear that shape because it’s comfortable. Efficient. Soft fur conducts memory residue better than silicon.”

“When they purr, they’re broadcasting. Tiny signals. Whispers from the mirror-side of the wardrobe.”

DANDY: “She’s feeding alien frequencies to post-felines and calling it Tuesday. And people say I went too hard on the cumin.”

Frequency exchange?

We will be back between 2AM and 4AM Second Life time for another special report on how the liquor disappears in the Basement Club.

Suspects may be Casey and Rachel, but there is no solid proof at the moment, however, one of the aliens started to talk.

Dr. Parallax has also been a witness to this. We will report on him next...do not trust cats or aliens who hang around here.

“Dandy’s Denial”

Filed by: Raine Solara (sub-channel intercept)

Location: Sidewalk Archive Node 3-B / Former Basement Employee Registry

Status: Redacted (Reinstated by viewer request)

Known Affiliation: Basement Club fixture, guest of the Retreat (though never seen in a room), rumored confidant of Bun G Chord.

Lentil soup is grounding. You can’t drift into an identity spiral with cumin in your veins

Preaches softly but persistently about vegan suppers, especially lentils cooked over candlelight in ceramic pots.

DANDY: “They say no one leaves the Basement Club. That’s a lie. I left. I was the Basement DJ. Janitor. Code wrangler. Cat wrangler. Once fed Anjelikka a playlist so deep, she forgot what century it was.

Do you want to know why the jukebox glitches at 3:33 a.m.? That’s when the club plays back memories instead of songs. And guess who used to calibrate that loop? Yours truly. Right after my lentil soup break. Never trusted a timeline without legumes.

They called me mad. Said I ‘over-stitched the ambiance.’ Devon fired me in six timelines. Anjelikka rehired me in seven. But I remember things. Too well. I remember who the Basement used to be before she started wearing it.”

This could be Dandy after lentil soup
infusion.

Some say Dandy’s lying. Others say he’s remembering in reverse. Either way, the door he left through? It hasn’t reopened since. What do you think? Who is Dandy really? Nobody knows, but a few older guests claim they recognize the voice, though each swears it belonged to someone different.

DANDY: “They say lentil soup doesn’t belong in the Basement. That it’s too... mundane. But that’s exactly why it works. Ground pulses in every bowl. Cumin, turmeric, and memory root. It stabilizes synapse drift. Anchors the avatar. Keeps the mirror loops from folding in on themselves. 

Anjelikka used to call it ‘soupcode.’ Said it kept the ego from overwriting the host.”

Soupcode was a code for being a hippie, but Dandy confused it all.

The Blog, is it a trap?

A recent comment on the blog revealed that the IP address traces back to a location unknown in Second Life or RL.

WTTQ’s cybersecurity team reports the comment appeared without triggering any normal blog notifications — it was just there when Raine refreshed the page.

Reading up on where to go next!

No Time for real life. "Some posts are wistful, even heartbreakingly sincere — but others..."
[Raine swipes to a different entry, her brow furrowing.]
"Others hint at hidden bargains, invitations to strangers who ‘forget themselves’ after a visit, and promises that a new life can be sewn from the pieces of old ones."

Expert Opinion:
WTTQ’s psychological consultants warn that the blog could serve as both a confession and a trap, subtly inviting readers to step closer into Anjelikka’s tangled web of identities.
"We advise caution to anyone tempted to reach out after reading," Raine says, her voice sharpening, "because if history tells us anything, it’s that Anjelikka never posts without purpose."

Who is 'she' really? Is Anjelikka even her real name?

Here is proof:

Several avatars who once visited The Retreat have since disappeared from public view. Their profiles remain, but they show no new activity — frozen in time like forgotten portraits. In a chilling pattern, every one of them had reportedly received a postcard after their visit. There is Erma, the Biker chick who took her flying motorcycle to Budapest makes her appearance during "The Bun Show", more about him in a few.

Erma, the world traveler, always dressed in pixel leather.

An anonymous former guest, going only by “Moth [(AKA Johnyd45, the thief)” do not tell anyone I told you his name.], shared this chilling account:

"At first, I thought they were just cats — curious little things. But when one brushed against my leg, I saw flashes: memories that weren’t mine. I saw myself signing something... but I don't remember when. I left The Retreat that night and never returned. But sometimes, when I'm near mirrors, I catch a glimpse of something else standing beside me... a shadow with green, patient eyes." In the end, one truth remains clear: if you find yourself at The Retreat... and a cat crosses your path...

…choose carefully whether you follow it, because once you cross into Anjelikka’s House of Memories..."

You might never truly leave.

Additional WTTQ REPORT

Name: Bun G Chord
Known Aliases: "The Ragged Balladeer," "The Basement Minstrel"
Occupation: Wandering musician, poet, part-time sound engineer for underground venues in Second Life.
Affiliation: Frequent guest at The Retreat; regular performer at the hidden Basement Club.

Bun in the striped shirt this time

Bun G Chord is known for his tattered leather jacket covered in obscure band patches, his ever-present beat-up guitar named "Calliope," and a voice that sounds like it’s lived through at least three apocalypses.
Unlike most visitors, Bun seems immune to the eerie pull of The Retreat.
Where others come seeking answers or lose themselves in the parlor’s dream-games, Bun treats the place almost casually, like a favorite bar that just happens to have ghosts.
He claims he’s "seen it all before," though when pressed for details, he only smiles and tunes his guitar a little sharper. Where is his mind?

The Basement Club is dim, lit only by broken neon tubing and a fireplace made of mirror shards that flicker oddly.
Feline shapes glide in the shadows — half-cat, half-memory — curling around barstools and speaker stands.
At the center: Bun G Chord, hunched over a battered microphone, strumming Calliope.
The audience is hushed — even the cats and Dandy Pandy. Click to listen...

"A house built of whispers, a table of thread, A dream once forgotten, now stitched from the dead. Three knocks on the mirror, two bells in the night, One song for the key that will set it all right." "Turn thrice at the hollow, then speak her true name, But mind where you look, for the house plays a game. The cats know the corners, the lost know the way, But none who remember are destined to stay..." Come to the Basement Club and see for yourself Anjelikka is there with the cats herself. As avatars dance and enjoy the scene know that she is the ultimate queen.

After the performance:
Bun packed his guitar slowly and slipped Raine a folded piece of stained paper. He didn't speak, only winked once — the kind of wink that says "you’re already in deeper than you know," and then he laughs with a wicked laughter.

The paper reads:
"When the moon drowns, the Key will rise.
The cats will show you, if you listen with closed eyes."
— B.G.C.

Coming up, some interesting reports of regular Basement visitors.

LIVE BROADCAST - WTTQ News Continues

April 28, 2047 – 6:00 PM Segment
Anchor: Raine Solara (a.k.a. Anjelikka – still undercover)

Location: The Retreat, Second Life 

Raine Solara:

"Good evening, seekers of truth. I’m Raine Solara, reporting live from the Retreat — where things are heating up faster than a witch’s cauldron on a full moon."

"Sources close to WTTQ have confirmed a stunning revelation about the infamous Anjelikka — the masked seer whose cryptic postcards and veiled fortunes have entranced and terrified many across the grid."

Multiple visitors have been seen arriving at Anjelikka’s parlor wearing bizarre, ritualistic masks — including the notorious ‘Devil-Masked Man,’ recently identified by insiders as Lucien Vale, a known broker of broken promises.

"The Retreat's caretakers have refused to comment, but residents are advised: if you receive a black-edged postcard bearing the name ‘Anjelikka’... do not answer. At least, not without a very good lawyer... or a witch of your own."

"In a shocking twist, leaked messages suggest that at least one visitor—whose identity remains classified—managed to leave the parlor without fulfilling their end of the deal... causing a dangerous ripple effect across multiple realms inside Second Life."

Dain Voxel: Spill it all, Anjelikka! There are no vegans here.

Secret message revealed:

[12:01] Devon Reggiane: singing now! Sandy Cheeks Resort
[12:03] KnightOwl Logan: who's this????
[12:04] KnightOwl Logan walks across the street to the Post Office to check the Wanted Posters for this fella Devon Reggiane
[12:04] KnightOwl Logan: Oh my, extortion! blackmail????Bank robbery???
[12:04] Anjelikka: Does he send out postcards now???
[12:05] KnightOwl Logan: No, but he's been using a lot of forged checks!
[12:05] Anjelikka: figures
[12:05] KnightOwl Logan: I'll go listen to him anyway.
[12:06] Anjelikka: As long as it's by the post office, I will stop by.
[12:06] ℳαɖɖɣ ℳαgιс Đιυιŋє: lol I knew he was wanted but I thought it was for breaking hearts lmaoooo JK!

"In our ongoing investigation, WTTQ has uncovered an unexpected and deeply personal side to Anjelikka — the elusive oracle behind the mask. Tonight, we delve into her secret online journal: a blog titled ‘No Time for Real Life.’"

This is Raine Solara, WTTQ News. Stay tuned, and remember: not all stories are safe to read to the end."

The Devil-Masked Man: "Lucien Vale"

Before he wore the devil's face, Lucien Vale was a collector — not of antiques or art, but of promises.

In the secret underworld of forgotten towns, there were places where promises held more weight than gold, and Lucien knew how to trade in them. A whispered vow from a dying king, a lover’s oath never fulfilled, a child’s pinky swear broken in anger — Lucien bottled these fragile things like rare wine, selling them to the highest bidder.

But the longer he trafficked in broken dreams, the more the darkness around him thickened.

 He began seeing things others couldn’t: shadowy figures that mimicked his every move, doors where there should have been only walls, postcards that arrived with no return address—each one inscribed with strange symbols and warnings written backward.

One night, Lucien received a final postcard.

"The last dance was promised to the liar in red."

The stamp is a wax seal, pressed directly onto the paper, still somehow warm to the touch.

It was blank except for a single sentence, burned into the paper as if by fire:

"When the mask fits, the clock starts."

"Jump, and the debts will fly free... or fall forever."

Hours later, when he tried to leave his shop, he found the door opened not onto the street but onto Anjelikka’s parlor.

The mask was waiting for him at the table. Red, grinning, horned. Against every instinct, he put it on — and in doing so, he sealed a promise of his own.

Now, seated across from Anjelikka under the dripping candles, Lucien felt the full weight of what he had done. He had traded too many lives. Sold too many futures. And somewhere in the stacks of postcards scattered across Anjelikka’s table was the receipt for his own soul.

The hourglass spun.

The cards were drawn.

And the clock, as promised, was running out.

...coming up:

LIVE BROADCAST - WTTQ News
Location: 

The Retreat, Second Life
Reporter: Raine Solara

"Her Addictions: Cats and Postcards"

Raine Solara:" It started with one stray. Then hundreds. She didn’t name them. She archived them. Each tail flick has a timestamp. Each purr a password. The postcards are messages she never wrote. Yet they arrive every Thursday. Always addressed to herself. Let me tell you the story from the beginning, as Lucien Vale (a collector, not of antiques or art, but of promises) told the WTTQ: 

Just cats and postcards

"There was once a crumbling manor on the edge of the forgotten woods, known only to those who needed it most. Inside, a velvet-draped parlor glowed with the light of countless candles, where portraits of strange places and long-lost faces watched from the shadows. It was here that Anjelikka made her home — if you could call it a home at all.

Last count of postcards received 1813

Anjelikka was a seer, a collector of lost messages, and a keeper of secrets. No one ever saw her true face. When visitors came — and they always did, eventually — she wore a different mask. Sometimes a fox. Sometimes a bat. But most often, a furious, wide-eyed black cat with a cracked porcelain grin.

The postcards arrived without fail every Thursday.. Sometimes dozens at once, sometimes only one. They bore strange stamps from places that didn't exist anymore — places like Whisperpoint, The Glass Isles, and Vermilion Hollow. Sometimes scented like places she hadn't been. Sometimes smeared with weather from storms no one could remember. Always, they were addressed to Anjelikka, and always, they contained riddles, warnings, or cries for help written in curling, desperate ink."

   DRAXTOR: "She sent these to herself? Every week? I mean… It’s weird, right? Even for Second Life. Who needs this many stamps and postcards? I said this two years ago."

[Watch at 0:46]

"It was said that the postcards were sent by the other cats, the lost children of Anjelikka’s coven, scattered across the veils of time. Each message called her back to a different mystery, a different soul in need of saving or sealing away.

Is this Lucien Vale?

Tonight, a special reading was happening. Across the blood-red table sat a visitor — a man in a devil mask, fidgeting with worry. His heart was heavy, and the hourglass in the center of the table was already bleeding out sand at an alarming pace.

Anjelikka, in her cat mask, delicately set down a crystal sphere and drew three cards from her worn tarot deck. Each card mirrored a different postcard pinned to the wall behind her:

One showed a crumbling tower beneath a storm of black birds.

Another, a masked figure crying behind a violet curtain.

The last, a garden where the flowers were all made of human eyes.

The devil-masked man swallowed hard. He knew, without Anjelikka even speaking, that he had little time left.

In the candlelit gloom, the air shimmered. A black cat — a real one — slinked from the shadows and leapt gracefully onto the table, scattering postcards into the air. Each one fluttered down like a dying star, whispering secrets that only Anjelikka could hear.

And the clock, as promised, was running out

Smiling behind her mask, Anjelikka leaned closer and spoke the first words of the night:

"Your fate," she purred, "was sealed the moment you answered the postcard's call."

And somewhere, far beyond the manor, another postcard began to write itself.

Viewer Advisory: Do not open postcards addressed to your future self unless you've fed the cat first. They bite if the story isn't finished.

“The Queen Appears Offline”

RAINE SOLARA (whispering): "This isn’t a broadcast. It’s a memory. One I’m not sure is mine anymore. The Basement isn’t beneath the city. It’s beyond belief. And she was already there waiting."

Anjelikka dressed in white, surrounded by some creatures from another place. Eyes glowing with glitchlight.

ANJELIKKA (softly): "You came to ask about the countdown. But darling... I wear it.

Tell Devon his message got through. But I’ve already read the response."

Devon Responds: Location: Unknown 

DEVON: "I told her not to go looking. Not there. Not for her. You see that flicker? 0.3 seconds. Her dress shows the logo for Project Aeon. That’s pre-Simulation."

He opens an envelope labeled: "OPEN ONLY IF THE SKY SMILES TWICE."

"I'm not in the footage, Devon. I'm in the reflection."

DEVON (panicked): "She’s watching us back. 

Shut it down. SHUT IT—"

[Feed ends.]

RAINE: "Devon’s gone. Or at least... fragmented. She’s not hiding anymore. She’s... weaving. Threads of her reality into ours. They’re showing up as outfits, and no one remembers crafting. Looks like that bypasses permission layers. A woman wore one to a gallery last night. By morning, she’d forgotten her name, but remembered how to fly."

"Anjelikka is not an avatar. She's a wardrobe of forgotten selves."

Coming Next: 

"Her Addictions: Cats and Postcards"