Alley Cat Strut

by Tamashii2000

Summary:

They talk. They always talk. From sunrise truth-hunters to midnight crackpots, Emerald City breathes through the frequencies of WECN 710 AM. It's the city’s paranoia turned poetry, its guilt-shadows broadcast across rooftops. When you're Alleycat, the radio isn't just background noise—it’s a second heartbeat.

Sometimes it warns. Sometimes it lies. And sometimes… it tells you exactly what they don’t want you to know.

Alleycat doesn’t trust many, but the voices from the Emerald Dial? They’re the closest thing this city’s got to a conscience—and a confession booth. And tonight, someone on the airwaves knows too much.

Author's Note: I am not interested in hiring any paid artists. Please do not message asking if I would like to hire you. The answer is no.

Chapter 1: Emerald Dial, Emerald Secrets

Wecn Radio Log

Chapter 14: Emerald on the Air

I kicked open the door of the old broadcast tower and the scent hit me first—coffee grounds, dust, and hot electronics. WECN 710 AM. The Emerald Dial. My city’s nervous system. If there was a pulse to track or a secret to whisper, it came through one of these mics.

Ivy North was already live when I stepped into the soundproof booth, her voice slicing through static like a scalpel. "They paved another green space today and called it progress. I call it a funeral. Call in, Emerald City. Let me know what else they're burying." Serious, sharp. Ivy didn’t blink when city hall threatened her with lawsuits. Hell, she sharpened her questions.

By 10, Mason Bright swaggered in with a coffee the size of a trash can and the grin of a man who knew all the sins of the powerful. "Let’s see what they’re lying about today," he winked at me through the glass. His show, The Pulse, didn’t just make enemies—it made movements. When metahumans fell from the sky or corporate towers burned, his voice was the first to demand accountability. Or throw gasoline on it.

Afternoons were chaos. Angela Flores helmed Emerald Sound Off, letting every crank, whistleblower, and philosopher with a phone line spit their truths. I once heard a guy claim the mayor was a lizard, and she deadpanned, "Do you have evidence, or just strong feelings about scales?"

But nights? Nights belonged to Uncle Roach.

He broadcast from a dim, copper-lit room that smelled like burnt solder and canned chili. Conspiracy maps covered his walls. The way his voice dropped low during Crackin' the Vault could give a ghost goosebumps. "You feel that hum in your teeth? That ain’t tinnitus. That’s the Emerald Tower talking to the stars. And maybe... listening back."

Roach talked about vigilantes like they were folklore. Especially Alleycat. Sometimes with awe. Sometimes with fear. Always like she was real. He didn’t know how right he was.

Fridays, Dr. Felix Yarrow took over for Behind the Mask and started dissecting our kind like we were frogs on a table. "The public deserves oversight," he’d say. "Vigilantism is moral chaos masquerading as justice. We need structure." I never told him I tuned in most Fridays. Even chaos needs to know what the system’s thinking.

Then, when the city truly slept, Sister Marlene whispered into the void. Her show, Quiet Hour, was the softest haunt on the dial. No one knew where she came from. Her voice felt like a lullaby written on the back of a confession. Radios crackled when ghosts got too close. I swear I heard her say my name once.

WECN wasn’t just a station. It was a mirror held up to Emerald City. And me?

I was somewhere between the static and the silence, listening for the next name they whispered.

Waiting for when it would be mine again.