"A COW GONE COSMIC" TUBBY’S TEARS & THE ABDUCTION AT DUSK

 Filed at the edge of the Retreat’s meadow, where grass glows strangely blue after sundown.
 By Raine Solara, who watched Tubby cry into a milk jug.

For all the chaos swirling through the Retreat aliens, cat conspiracies, and monkey jukebox cults no one expected Tubby to cry.

But tonight, he did.
Openly.
Audibly.
Near the pasture, where his beloved pet cow, Mellowbell, once grazed among the mushrooms and the windchimes.

The heartbreaking abduction in Area 52

THE ABDUCTION

According to Tubby’s tearful recollection:
Mellowbell “mooed twice, then levitated.”
A soft green light opened above her.
Tubby tried to hold her tail but it slipped through his fingers like stardust.
One final look at those gentle bovine eyes, full of trust and confusion... then gone.

The only thing left behind?

A perfectly round patch of scorched grass and a cowbell still faintly vibrating.

Tubby refuses to eat dairy “in protest of interstellar injustice.”

DR. PARALLAX WEIGHS IN
“Cattle are emotionally resonant. Beings from the Fourth Graze Quadrant find them... comforting. Mellowbell may be royalty now.”

Soni found etchings on the cowbell glyphs that match the ones Rachel saw glowing behind the jukebox during the monkey incident.

And Casey insists she heard Mellowbell mooing in the key of F#m through the Basement speakers last night. 

I don't think this is cactus water

IS THERE HOPE?
Tubby believes she’ll return.
He lights a lantern every night at 2:22am, "Mellowbell’s favorite time" and whispers:
“Moo once if you’re near, twice if you're queen of the cosmos.”

BREAKING WTTQ REPORT: “THERE WAS MONKEY BUSINESS GOING ON”

Filed at 2:34am by Raine Solara, broadcasting from the broken-down espresso cart beneath the Hollow Tree, where strange laughter echoed in the mist.

We’ve seen aliens.
We’ve danced with cat-people.
We’ve been kissed mid-dimension shift and blamed the jukebox for all our bad decisions.

But last night? Well, Casey said it was Friday, but it wasn't

There was undeniable, hairy-palmed monkey business going on.

“Monkey see, monkey knows.
 Monkey’s got your secrets. And he’s dancing next.”

 SONI – The Stylish Sleuth
Soni was the first to notice the strange rhythm echoing from the vents.
Clad in iridescent boots and suspicion, he muttered:
“That’s not jungle music. That’s a warning.”

He led the charge, using a broken mic stand as a baton and a flashlight app that glitched in Morse code. The monkey seemed to recognize him, blinking twice and vanishing into the wall. 

The aliens mixed with the monkeys, he says.
We are doomed.

The aliens mixed with the monkeys, he says. We are doomed.

CASEY – The Blamer Turned Believer

Initially, she blamed the cat-aliens for the missing liquor (again), but once she spotted tiny paw prints with opposable thumbs, she changed her tune.
She shouted:
“This is a two-banana job, and I’m not dancing until I get answers!”
Then she danced anyway. Hypnotic. Uncontrollable. Monkey-approved.

RACHEL – The Happy Dancer with a Dark Gift
Rachel followed the trail of banana peels like breadcrumbs, humming a song only the jukebox should’ve known.

She said, “He wore sunglasses. At night. I think he was winking in Morse.”
She later confirmed that the monkey made her a tiny friendship bracelet before disappearing.
Rachel’s now wearing it and has since gained the sudden ability to perfectly imitate capuchin screeches.

Soni has mapped out the club’s duct system.
Casey found fur in the soundboard and is cross-referencing DNA with DJ Bun’s collection.
Rachel is in a trance-like state, ballroom dancing alone, claiming she’s “waiting for the midnight climb.”

Do not trust Astrid, she is a slut, Dr. Parallax says.

The monkey is a dimensional scout. The monkey is Tubby in disguise.
The monkey is a warning from Anjelikka’s forgotten past, something about “the one she loved but shouldn’t have.”

Dr. Parallax has placed “banana sensors” at all entry points.

WTTQ LATE-NIGHT BULLETIN: “STOOD UP IN THE CITY OF SECRETS”

 Filed from the Empire Omerta Skyline Bar by Raine Solara beneath flickering neon, heartburned by betrayal.

TUBBY STOOD UP ANJELIKKA

Empire Omerta

And in Empire Omerta, that’s not just rude. It’s legendary.

They say the air in Empire Omerta is always thick with smoke, half-truths, and the perfume of dangerous intentions. But last night, the sky hung heavy for a different reason: Anjelikka waited. Alone.
She wore feathers.
She wore velvet.
She wore the past like armor and perfume like a dare.
And Tubby never came.

Anjelikka still waiting

Location: The Celestial Ballroom, 44 stories above the Empire’s tangled heart.
Ambience: Jazz glitches looping through melted phonograph horns.
Time: 11:11pm, the moment magic and menace usually shake hands.
Anjelikka was seated under a chandelier that whispered names.
She sipped an espresso macchiato, but her lips never touched the foam.
The glass across from her remained empty.

WITNESS REPORTS:
DJ Laura: “She didn’t cry. She just stared through the skyline like she was watching it break.”
Rachel (still in her flapper dress): “We almost danced over. But there was something in her silence. Like… fire held in a cage.”
Erma (from her shroom garden, somehow patched in): “That kind of wound doesn’t bleed. It changes gravity.”

Dancing by herself

🐾 THEORIES ABOUND:

Tubby’s off-grid, maybe with Astrid, maybe hunted by the Moth again.
Some say he’s been looped into a timeline fragment by the jukebox.
Others whisper he was never coming.
That this was about Anjelikka remembering what she'd once chosen to forget.

 
💬 ANJELIKKA'S WORDS, CAUGHT ON TAPE:
“It’s not about him not showing up. It’s about me showing up… and still hoping.”

Then she left.
Feathers falling behind her like thoughts unspoken.

Empire Omerta remembers. And so will the Retreat.
Because when Anjelikka stands up, even the Moai tilt their heads in sympathy.

"Tubby will pay"

LOVE TRIANGLE (OR PENTAGON?) AT THE RETREAT

Filed by Raine Solara, WTTQ News, live from the Basement Club lounge, where the espresso’s too strong and the drama’s always brewing.

BUN G CHORD has confessed in song, during a moody synthwave set that he harbors feelings for Astrid, Tubby’s mysteriously quiet sister who may or may not be part alien and definitely drinks her coffee black as the void.

Oh no...not a love triangle

There’s just one problem.

ASTRID is dating DANDY.

Yes, that Dandy the lentil-loving, jazz-hands-wielding shapeshifter who streams late-night cooking shows and occasionally bursts into philosophical song about tofu.

WHAT WE KNOW:
Bun’s love song, “Interstellar Heartbreak (Astrid's Lament),” debuted at 2:12 a.m. It made Rachel cry.
Astrid was seen watching the performance from the DJ booth… in complete silence. Then she disappeared into the mist.

Why is she studying Anjelikka?

Tubby has Not Commented™, but was spotted sharpening his alien toothpick collection.
Dandy later uploaded a video titled “Love Is a Soup: Stir Often, Burn Never,”  unclear if it's about Astrid, Bun, or soup.
Shayth’rien claims he saw Astrid “dimension-blink” when Bun hit the high note.

It turns out Astrid, the quiet sister of Tubby, the object of Bun’s synth-drenched affection, and current romantic enigma to Dandy, has a secret mission.
She’s not just dancing through the fog and sipping espresso in mysterious silence.
She’s here to study Anjelikka.

Sources say she’s been assigned by the Council of Outer-Psychic Relations to observe:
The anomalous gravitational pull around Anjelikka’s presence (emotional and otherwise).
Her ability to attract cats, postcards, ex-lovers, and unexplained radio signals.

Are the shrooms here?

The possible dimensional rip beneath the gallery, which began appearing right after Anjelikka painted something she wasn't supposed to.

Meanwhile, Erma, the elusive elder who runs the Retreat’s forgotten corner, is cultivating a lush, glowing mushroom garden.

Known only to a few, this garden includes:
Memory Spores: Trigger long-forgotten romances when inhaled.
Truthcaps: Make anyone say what they really think about the Basement Club dancers.
Blinkshrooms: Allow 3-second dimension shifts. Often used by Shayth’rien during awkward silences.
Silent Bells: Mushrooms that ring in other frequencies, sometimes causing jukebox malfunctions.
“Shay’s Folly”: A rare, blue-speckled fungi known to inspire dangerous art.

Erma says she grows them for “balance and beauty.” Others suspect a defense system. Possibly even a cure for the alien cat addiction to Basement booze.

ASTRID & ERMA: CONNECTED?

MEMORIAL DAY AT THE RETREAT CEMETERY

 Filed by Raine Solara, WTTQ News, with static in the mic and fog at the heels.

LOCATION:
The Retreat Cemetery — under the moaning pines, beside the rusted gate that still opens by itself. A gentle mist rises from the grass, and someone left an espresso macchiato on a mossy headstone. (We suspect Dr. Parallax.)

Freedom is not free

It’s quiet today, but not empty.
Flags (some Earth-made, some… less so) line the winding paths.
Tiny candles flicker beside names half-remembered, etched in stone and bark.
The air carries both solemnity and whispered music—possibly from a nearby Basement Club soundcheck bleeding through dimensions.

KNOWN GRAVESITES:
Anjelikka’s Exes: Their stones are... elaborate. Each one hums faintly.

G., the Southern Boy: His grave has a flask and a rose, always replaced by someone who never leaves a name.

The Alien Elf: No marker, but the space glows, and butterflies gather.

Scott (maybe Shay?): His portrait appeared on the chapel wall during the storm. The paint still drips.

The Iguana’s Cousin: A tiny grave with a piñata tied to the headstone and a half-eaten taco in tribute.

Atop the chapel steps, the altar book—once lost, now open. The page today reads:

"To the ones we loved, and the ones who were never quite real,
We light a candle not just for what was lost—
But for what we can’t stop returning to."

Todays visitors:
Rachel & Casey: Placed flowers and danced a slow step barefoot across the grass.
Dandy: Said a prayer involving lentils and jazz hands.
Odin: Wore a floor-length cloak stitched with the names of the fallen.

May all we have lost rest in peace

Dr. Parallax: Lit incense made from ancient espresso beans.
Tubby: Whispered to a gravestone, then walked away whistling “Espresso Macchiaaaatoooo…”
Laura (DJ): Spun a remix of “Taps” with synth drops. Somehow, it worked.

A train whistle from the forest at midnight.
A Monarch butterfly landing on a grave, then vanishing into the ground.
A child’s laughter near a headstone marked only with a spiral.

---

FINAL THOUGHT:
They say you come to the Retreat Cemetery to remember.
But sometimes… You leave remembering too much.

BREAKING WTTQ BULLETIN: THE IGUANA WAS CAUGHT 🦎

Filed by Raine Solara from behind the bar at the Basement Club, still holding half a piñata stick and a shot of questionable mezcal.

TIME: 4:17 a.m., right after the jukebox played “Cruel to Be Kind” without skipping for the first time in 11 years.

LOCATION: Near the back patio of the Basement Club, just past the glowing moss and two suspiciously silent alien-cats.

THE IGUANA INFAMOUS & UNINVITED

Yes, that iguana. The one who:

Bit Bun G Chord’s synth cable mid-performance, causing a ripple in local time.
He was blamed for chewing on the sacred Basement booze stash, though recent evidence suggests Casey and Rachel framed him.
Was spotted sunbathing on top of the jukebox, right before it started speaking fluent Esperanto.
Allegedly whispered BBQ recipes to Dr. Parallax during a tequila tasting.

WHO CAUGHT HIM?
Someone was wearing slippers, holding a slice of leftover “Salton Sea Pizza,” and muttering something about “astral lizards.” She (who is she?) calmly placed an empty Moai mug on the floor.

The iguana slithered right in.

UNCONFIRMED RUMORS:
One of the alien Monarch butterflies followed the iguana.
The iguana may hold a piece of the chapel altar book in its stomach.
Pandora swears the iguana winked at her and said, “Tell Mike I remember.”

FINAL THOUGHT:
As the club crowd erupted in cheers and resumed dancing, the lights dimmed, the jukebox flickered, and the iguana, still calm in the tote, let out a tiny, unmistakable “cha-cha-cha.”

Stay tuned. This isn't over.

WTTQ SPECIAL REPORT: “The Monarchs Have Landed”

 Filed by Raine Solara, live from The Retreat

DATE: [Classified]
TIME: Just past golden hour, when the trees started humming.
LOCATION: Near the hollow tree, just beyond the gallery where G’s secrets sleep.

WITNESS ACCOUNT:
Local resident Casey first noticed the shimmering. “They didn’t flap,” she said. “They hovered... like royalty with somewhere urgent to be.”

Monarch Butterflies—But Not From Here.
These aren't your average migrating butterflies. No. These Monarchs shimmer metallic violet when the moonlight hits them. Their wings pulse with fractal geometry. And they don’t land on flowers. They land on memories, specifically, ones you’ve tried to forget.

They are here for the feelings

Observed Behaviors:

One hovered before Bun G Chord’s face and then played a tiny sound clip of his childhood dog barking. (Bun cried. Hugged a tree. Later, danced harder than ever.)

Another butterfly entered the jukebox. The jukebox has since only played tracks in 5/7 time. 

A Monarch perched on Odin’s shoulder, and he immediately redesigned his entire wardrobe. (“I now dress for butterflies,” he said solemnly.)

SCIENTIFIC(?) THEORIES:
Dr. Parallax claims they are memory harvesters from a satellite world orbiting love itself.
Dandy insists they’re vegan and simply looking for a safe place to overwinter.
Shallan swore one Monarch whispered the final ingredient in the alien stew.
Moth (aka Johnyd45) tried to catch one. It phased through his net and left behind a tiny origami of his first kiss.

Visit the Monarchs here

One Monarch fluttered near Rachel during a Basement set. She paused her dancing and muttered, “I remember him now. The one with the guitar and the teeth too perfect to be real.” Then she turned up the volume and smiled like she meant it.

FINAL THOUGHTS:

They’re still out there. Glowing. Watching. Possibly time-traveling. Some say they’re drawn to the altar book in the chapel, others believe they follow the scent of espresso macchiato dreams.

Whatever the truth, one thing is clear:

The alien Monarchs aren’t here for the flowers.

They’re here for the feelings.

ESPRESSO MACCHIAAAATOOOOO! Confessions from the Basement Club

 Filed by Raine Solara, WTTQ Special Correspondent, from somewhere between a spilled drink and a dimensional rift.

Life is like spaghetti
It's hard until you make it
No stresso, no stresso
It's gonna be espresso

1:47 A.M.
The club is sweating neon. The espresso machine hisses like it knows. DJ Laura’s set is shimmering like wet paint on time.

Let's see what they have to say...

And one by one… they confess.

☕ Bun G Chord:
Leaning against the bass amp, half-lit by rotating blue strobes, he says:

“I once kissed Anjelikka’s clone by accident. She had no shadow. I didn’t notice until the third song.”

☕ Rachel (still holding her dance shoes):

“I stole the espresso beans from the chapel. They were glowing. I thought it was aesthetic. Turns out they might be sentient.” 

☕ Shayth’rien (emerging mid-dimension shift):
His voice is distorted and echoing from five seconds ago:

“I kissed someone during a time collapse. We’re now married in three realities and not speaking in two others.”

☕ Dandy (with a vegan plate and a rose):

“Tubby’s sister and I are a thing. He doesn’t know. Also, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be moderating a forum about lentils.”

 ☕ Dr. Parallax (offering a strange pastry):

“The Moai dream in caffeine. That’s why I brought these. One bite and you remember who you were before you danced with regret.”

 ☕ Odin (fashionAtic, hiding in the fog):

“Espresso? I don’t even drink it. I wear it.”
(His boots are literally espresso-stained leather.)

☕ The Alien-Cats (telepathically in unison):

“We have always been here. We are the foam.” 

Mysteries found in Area 52

And then Laura drops the final beat.

The confession track.
Lights flicker. People sway like confetti in a gravity storm. The jukebox wails:

 

“You’ve got to be cruel…”

[SKIP] “…to be kind.”

 A shadowy figure slips behind the espresso bar.

It might be Moth.
It might be you.

Would you like to make a confession too? ☕

Laura at the Basement Club "SET TO STUN"

At exactly 2:22 a.m., the walls of the Basement Club began to breathe.

Not literally, but it felt that way when Laura stepped behind the glowing console, her silhouette crowned with a halo of shifting lasers and vapor. She adjusted her gold-trimmed headphones, locked eyes with the alien cats perched on the subwoofers like deities of funk, and pressed play.

We know some of them are aliens.

The Bassline Hit.

A ripple of static shimmered through the air, bending the edges of space and sound. The music blended deep house, vintage disco, and something unmistakably off-world. Laura’s fingers moved like spells filtering, scratching, looping each move, syncing with the strange biomechanical rhythm of her uninvited yet very enthusiastic alien backup dancers.

The Alien-Cats Danced.
They didn’t just dance, they levitated. With tails spiraling like galaxies and paws slicing the fog like synchronized stars, they created a choreography that no one could replicate. Not Casey, not Rachel, not even Bun G Chord (though he did try, dramatically, until he spun into the punch bowl).

Jolie and Eric

Jolie did a strip search; she said it was just Eric, but we know she searched everybody.

Someone swore that one of the cats whispered the coordinates to an unlisted dimension through the subwoofers.
Eddie (barefoot, as always) pumped the fog machine, accidentally triggering the “Interstellar Glimmer” preset. This flooded the room with tiny holographic comets. One of them winked at Laura. She winked back.
Raine Solara, covering the scene for WTTQ, dropped her mic halfway through her live report when one alien did a moonwalk in reverse time.
And just when it seemed the night couldn’t bend further, the jukebox hummed to life on its own and began echoing Laura’s set with a ghostly harmony. The line "You’ve got to be cruel to be kind…" looped once, glitched, then morphed into a beat drop so seismic that the club’s disco ball refracted a memory.

Dr. Parallax nodded from the sidelines with approval. “The Moai would’ve loved this.”
And maybe, just maybe, they were listening.

Devon and Bailey, or is his name Kevin?

Devon and Bailey showed up late just so they could be searched. Devon claims he knows me. Who is he?

NEXT UPDATE: “ESPRESSO MACCHIATO & OTHER DANGEROUS CONFESSIONS”

THE STEW IS BUBBLING

 Filed with a scorched notebook and sauce on the lens by Raine Solara, who swears the pot whispered her name.

The aliens just call it:
“Stew.”
No article. No pretense. Just Stew.

Stew anyone?

But this isn’t your mother’s rainy-day dinner.
This is the memory-melting, future-hinting, emotionally-reactive stew that’s been simmering since the jukebox broke during Shayth’rien’s kiss.

And now?

It’s bubbling.

WITNESS STATEMENTS
Eddie, the barefoot DJ, claims he heard the stew say:
“She still loves him.” (But who is she?)
Casey insists it burped in Morse code.
Rachel swears it flashed an image of her ex’s apartment key.
Dr. Parallax took a spoonful and exclaimed:
“Oh. That’s my childhood.”
Odin, dramatically seated on a barstool in sequined boots, merely said:
“It’s underseasoned. But emotionally bold.”

Is this Espresso Macchiato?

WHAT’S IN IT?
Raine peered into the pot.
Steam rose in twisted shapes: a train, a lizard, someone crying at a vending machine.

Visible ingredients include:
Starberries (ripened by regret)
Dream-leeks (leaked from a forgotten night in 2012)
One of Anjelikka’s postcards, shredded like a bay leaf
A cube of Dandy’s lentil loaf
Possibly Moth’s missing sock?
At the bottom, a shimmer like liquified memory.

The aliens stirred it without touching it.
A spoon floated of its own accord.

A handwritten note appeared near the pot:

“Do not consume if:
– You're hiding something.
– You’re in love with someone you shouldn’t be.
– You remember Route 66 too clearly.
– You asked for the BBQ iguana.”

You said, “No cream. Just you and me,” and the alien summoned her.

BREAKING: “ALIENS RELEASE COOKBOOK; ODIN DECLARES FASHION WAR”

Filed via unstable transmission from the Retreat’s lighthouse (no, there is no lighthouse) by Raine Solara, who accidentally tasted page 47.

THE INTERGALACTIC COOKBOOK
Title: “To Serve You (And Also Snacks)”

Get your free copy in the Basement Club soon, it was sent to the printer on planet Claire.
Compiled telepathically by the cat-aliens, edited by a blender, and "test-tasted" by Dr. Parallax himself.
This isn't your typical Betty Crocker or Dr. Phil's dream lasagna.
Inside you’ll find:

Nebula Noodles – boil in starlight or lukewarm guilt
Lunar Flan – served best during arguments
Quantum Croutons – exist in all salads until observed
Emotional Salsa – changes flavor based on your mood
Zero-G Baklava – harder to eat than it is to forgive
Rachel’s Guilty Sparkle Shots – made without her knowledge
“Forgiveness Stew” calls for a regret, a hairpin, and 12 hours in low orbit
Each recipe includes nutritional values translated into scent.

While the aliens serve interdimensional hors d’oeuvres, Odin has taken it upon himself to redefine elegance at the Retreat.

Wasn't Odin the Demo Man?

He refers to himself as a “FashionAtic” part fashionista, part lunatic, and full-time threat to monotony (his group tag says so).

This week’s ensembles include:

1. A cloak made of rejected postcards
2. Sunglasses that only show you things you forgot

3. Boots that glow when someone lies nearby
4. A vest made of leftover gacha tickets from the Before Times
5. Earrings shaped like tiny Moai statues
6. A pocket mirror that never shows your own reflection just your exes’ regrets

During DJ Bun's set at  Basement Club, Odin interrupted a dramatic reading of the cookbook to shout:

“I may not know how to roast a starberry...
But I can dress like I’ve already survived its explosion!”

The aliens responded by folding themselves into origami giraffes and leaving behind a mysterious dish labeled “Don’t Let Odin Eat This”.

Poor Noob Katrina had no clue, but liked Odin.

Dr. Parallax took a bite anyway.
He hasn't blinked since.

“Some say the Retreat is a waystation between realities.
Others say it’s a fever dream powered by moonlight, lentils, and questionable fashion.”

Cy and Em: "We are coming back to this crazy place."

“But I say: if the aliens are cooking and Odin’s modeling, you might as well dance barefoot and eat the glitter. And then the new visitors, Cy and Em, take all the money from the Trivia machine (an obsession of Bun.)" 

Bun picked foul language as the subject, and now we know who is internationally known for these cuss words. 

Oh yes, and Anjelikka, the Queen of the Basement, knew the German words and just like a German had to correct the members on how they were used in the proper order. Dandy, she said nothing this time, most likely was hoping her lentil recipe made it into the cookbook.

Coming up next, a report from the Basement kitchen. Yes, really!!!

“DR. PARALLAX (AKA Elvis) BRINGS TREATS FOR THE ALIENS”

Filed under extraterrestrial etiquette and questionable hospitality by Raine Solara, still picking glitter off her boots.

“They understand. They’ve accepted the treaty.”

WHO IS DR. PARALLAX?
Alleged dimensional physicist / retired Elvis impersonator/collector of antique planetary maps.
Wears lab coats that sparkle faintly in moonlight
Once slow-danced with a Moai statue at the Retreat’s Winter Gala.

Believes “treat diplomacy” is the future of interspecies relations

And tonight, he showed up to the Midnight Commons of the Retreat with a cooler full of snacks and a grin wide enough to swallow a timeline.

Show me what he gave you!

Trenton Glass (reporting from behind a tree, seeing a cooler):

“It smelled like nutmeg and interstellar betrayal.”

Contents included:
1. Blueberry lentil muffins (alien favorite, apparently)
2. Marshmallow cubes shaped like cats (confusing to actual cats)
3. Something jiggling in an unmarked jar (Shallan claimed it was “a memory in edible form”)
4. Cold glow sticks wrapped in rice paper
5. One unlabeled burrito (which made a low purring sound)

Three known cat-aliens from the Retreat  nicknamed Whisker, Echo, and That One That Blinks Too Slowly, gathered near area 52, where Parallax had arranged a folding table with napkins and a flickering candle shaped like an asteroid.

Elvis claims the aliens would not probe him if he brought treats.

Rachel, barefoot and suspicious, whispered to Raine:

“He’s feeding them sugar.
You think that’s wise?
They already blame us for the jukebox incident.”

Casey just shrugged, danced a few spins, and pocketed two glow stick-rice rolls for later.

Final words by Dr. Parallax: “We’ve been trying to reach them through science. But sometimes…you just need snacks and sincerity.”

Then he turned and walked toward the train station, where Engine 229 sat humming quietly.

WTTQ SPECIAL BROADCAST: “Train Talk with Trenton — Interview in Motion”

Filed aboard Engine 229 by Raine Solara, who sat across from the man with the mic and too many secrets.

There are unconfirmed reports (but far too many) that Engine 229, the infamous midnight train winding through The Retreat,  may be more than just haunted.

It may be possessed not by ghosts, but by aliens, the kind that wear secondhand emotions like suits, the type that hum through jukebox static, and the kind that never ask for tickets, only memories.

Not walking. Not arriving. Just... being, now seated across from him. Her gown is stitched from whispers and late apologies. Cats curl in the corners like living shadows, watching with polite judgment.

TRENTON (closing his notebook):
“Did you summon the train? Or am I riding your memory of it?

”ANJELIKKA (smiling faintly):
“Neither. It summoned you. I just reserved the booth.”

TRENTON:
“This smells like Dandy’s recipe.”

ANJELIKKA:
“Dandy gave it to me when he quit the Basement. Said soup was the only truth left.”

“The train’s not haunted. It’s hijacked.
But the invaders aren’t strangers; they’re fragments of us, dressed in the alien.
The cats. The jukebox. That weird soup Dandy keeps pushing.
It’s all connected.”
“I think they’re trying to get somewhere... but they forgot where,” Trenton reports

"Try the lentils, Trenton."

“Some say Trenton Glass is immune to memory-fog. That he writes in real-time across timelines. That he was born backstage.”

Trenton plays the final clip from the night’s investigation a warped voice over the train’s speaker system:
"This is not a destination. This is a diagnosis."

Then silence.

And somewhere far ahead… laughter.
Possibly Rachel. Possibly not.

You, the reader, why not come and investigate or have a ghostly dinner on the train?