CHAPTER TWO

Burning

The shelter of his house sent a warming sensation through Seth, defrosting his cold limbs. Slipping off his brown, leather gloves, he peered around the small living room with white, peeling walls, and cluttered furniture. An old, lump couch rested in the middle of the room, facing the left wall where a small TV was positioned on a rickety stand. Up against stacks of boxes at the far wall, a love seat was tilted towards it as well. Boxes piled up in the living room, with various books, comics, and magazines lay carelessly amongst or on top of them.

Stripping out of his fur trench coat, Seth slipped it on the back of a chair as he strode into the kitchen. The cracked, white tiles ran to only to two corners. A couple feet before the sink and dishwasher they stopped short, and were replaced instead with hard, old wood. The cabinets stood resting against the stained, white wallpaper, which peeled around the corners. Some were missing doors or handles, making it an inconvenience.

As Seth peered around his little kitchen with the round table crowded beside a fridge to the side, he smiled slightly. It was a simple life, but he had built it. There were people worse off than him, and at least he got to do things his way.

Scrounging around in the fridge for the leftover Hamburger Helper from the other night, Seth took it and slumped over the back of his couch. The footrest was already up, and he landed with a content sigh. Picking up the remote, and turning on the small TV, he plowed into the cold food as Oprah drawled on about marriages. It was amazing the old bag was still on the air with all the crap she fed ignorant watchers.

Scoffing at the thought, Seth hit the remote with his fist, sending it through a few actions before it at last changed the channel. It stopped on the news, and interested by the lifeless body in the corner of the screen, he leaned forward to squint at the wavering picture better.

A female reporter, shoulder length blonde hair blown back with the hints of a storm, narrowed her watery eyes as she said in a crisp, clear voice, "Hey John. I'm standing here at the scene of the seventh death of what's being called 'the Cloning'." As she strode further to the side, the body coming fully into view, she added grimly, "It's been concluded that this isn't the act of one person…but many. More news on this when we come back."

Paying no mind to what the anchors had to say, Seth leaned back with a disgruntled sigh, shifting his shoulders against the lump couch cushions. He had been tracking the number of brutal deaths since day one, and for almost two months, there hadn't been another. What Seth always noticed though, was that - according to the press - the victims were gaming fans, with platinum dyed hair.

"Probably just another wanna-be thing," the man snorted, finishing the rest of his cold Hamburger Helper with a resound belch. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Seth rubbed his flat stomach lovingly before pushing himself up with a grunt.

The situation didn't involve him. Seth's line of investigation and police work was long over now. It had been three years since he quit the force, and though money was tight as a video game tester, Seth's passion stopped him from getting - what his mother called - a 'real job'.

Pushing himself up with a grunt, couch creaking in the release of his weight, Seth laid the bowl down on the kitchen counter beside other unclean dishes. Noting the mess for a moment, he continued to ignore it entirely as he made his way down the hall to the small room and unmade bed awaiting him.

Shimmying his way into the knot of blankets and comforters, Seth plumping his pillow beneath his head, and closed his eyes to certain sleep. At least, in his dreams he was secure from the world's protests and disdain.

However, with sleep there is never the certainty that worries won't follow. Next thing Seth knew, he was standing in the blaze of a burning town, eyes watering as ash and smoke filtered the air. A distinct smell of rotting flesh turned his stomach, and the man bent double as painful pulses through his head shot images of things he didn't understand. Seth could see a vague figure sweep off with turn of his shirttails – leaving behind a wall of fire that consumed the land. He watched it run along the street and up the driveways to the lined houses.

Despite his desperate attempts to cry out, to warn the people inside – nothing happened. No one came running out of the homes. It was almost as if they slept in their beds, awaiting certain doom. Was that what these images meant? That doom was inevitable?

Perspiration lined Seth's brightly illumined features as heat consumed his breathing and lulled his thoughts. The world spun in a rush of orange, red, and gray before him. The land was no longer smooth and paved, but broken and torn up in rifts. Muffled crying could be heard, and pushing himself to his feet, Seth stumbled in search of it.

The man only got a few feet before he fell to his knees. Staring at the melting tar beneath him – shaking from head to toe – Seth watched the steady stretch of a moving shadow draw near. When the soft, leather boots hesitated before him, the weakened man lifted a hazy gaze to meet a pair of flashing green eyes in a sea of dark.

The last thing Seth understood before he fell to the ground helpless, was the man's silent words: "Puppet I am, no more."