A Horror Genre?

An eternal burning flame upon the rocky surface. An isolated place with unliveable conditions.

The scorching heat and the fiery terrain.

All these spells a dying star that is way due destruction.

So what is sustaining it. Who is strong enough to do so? What is their objective? Is it something sinister? Nefarious?

After all, this is in the middle of nowhere, tiny speckle amidst the trillions of creations around.

Maybe it has something to do with that lonely looking blue, bubbly shield that is so very out of place?

Going past the blue shield, one will immediately see a humanoid figure with wisps of galactic mists exuding at intervals from its body.

It is sitting on a really soft and fluffy looking cloud, in a very back-breaking way or comfortably, if one must lie, with its back hunched and one leg tucked in and the other hanging off the cloud.

This figure sits in front of a vast amount of screens(at least 20). Hands moving at a speed incomprehensible to normal human's sight in midair.

All the signs matches to a familiar action that we all wish we can do but can not.

For fellow earthings, we can obviously deduce that this figure is somehow playing multiple competitive games, spewing unspeakable profanities among many chatrooms and watching several survival live streams.

All done at the same time.

Its name across multiple channel is ScoopThatWaterPlz.

Channel#490 is starting in 25 minutes

Teddiore is laying on his back when he opens his eyes.

A murky evening sky greets his sight.

The fiery gradients of the evening twilight luminates the linings of the billowing smokes originating from who knows where. Hopefully its somewhere close to him.

An eerier silence encompasses him. Not a single sound of rustling, nor any rumblings of machinery and engines. Where are the sound of walla?

He closes his eyes and focuses on hearing. Nothing. Not even the stridulating noises from the insects. It is far too silent.

Reluctance.

That is exactly what he is. He is reluctant to face this world. With such enthusiastic greeting, must he acknowledges it back?

For once why can it not be a bright sunny morning? Where birds are singing to each other; where warm cosy sun shines on him; where pleasant smelling breeze from greenary all round him?

He would have thrown caution to the wind and embraces whatever that first greets him then.

Instead, he gets an unsettling stilted silence, smoke pollution happening somewhere and an annoyance digging into his back achingly.

'Great. Just absolutely rainbows and turds.'

Sighing mentally and with defeated acceptance he decides to investigate the most pressing matter that is gradually turning into a backache.

He listlessly heaves himself up a tiny bit and reaches for the item underneath him. The item feels slightly oddly shaped as he grasps it, which is not that big of a matter.

But it is moving.

He frantically yeets the item post haste and sits upright, facing the yeetage's general direction. The item hits the ground in slow motion.

His eyes widen as he realises his mistake. Upon impact, thunderous sounds;

CLATTER! BOOM! POW WOW! CLING CLUNG CLANG! PEW PEW!

Teddiore cringes at the exaggerated painful noises yet eagerly braces himself for any confrontation that the unnecessary sounds caused.

He waits. And waits a bit more. But dissapo- ah, fortunately, nothing comes. Turning his ire at the cause instead, he sees a pair of aggrieved beady eyes. It seems to be glaring accusationally at him, firing illusionary lazer beam from its flaming angered eyes, shooting Teddiore dead several times over.

Or maybe that is just his imagination?

Nevertheless its a thumb sized turtle.

A live turtle! Phew! Glad that he did not use any strength at throwing the poor turtle. Otherwise it would have grown wings and flew off into the sunset.

"What are you doing here so far out the sea? ... or are you? Far from the shore?" Muses Teddiore, as he gaze unto the tiny, fuming creature.

He cautiously scoops up the turtle which by now, attempting to massage his fingers with its minuscule jaw. Not that it can do any damage at all with how small and tiny it is.

Gently, he runs the tiny creature around his fingers, giving it a free tumble drying experience that seems to disoriente and at the same time increases its blood pressure. It redoubles the massaging attempt, even adding a new attack; vigoriously hitting the edge of its shell against any available surfaces.

'What a fiesty little creature this is.' He remarks as he looks on its action with amusement and plays with it a bit longer. Alas, there is a more pressing matter at hand.

Stores it he does, in his front shirt pocket where the turtle begins to squirms and hiss. Then he softly declares, "Sir Spartakles the Twenty Seventh."

With a righteous nods, he pats the wriggling pocket and observes his surroundings. It would appear that he is on the high way with the woods to his left and a silent town on his right a few distance away.

The road he is on, well, it can do with a few spring cleaning with the absurd amount of undamaged cans littered around. One would think it is advertising some brand of intergalactic cans.

Oh wait, no.

It just seems to be a normal can transportation truck spillage. Except for the fact that the driver part of the vehicle is unanimously smudged into the ground like some sort of modern art.

"Interesting choice of decoration..." he comments nonchelantly as he plucks a can off the ground. "Tweeties' Yummy Hot Dog Soup, expires December 2029."

He hums as he contemplates on his thoughts. 'No overgrown greens, no animals, no humans, no sound, not much damages, no wind. Existing burnage somewhere to the west... whatever that happened, it is recent.'

The vehicles riddled on the road, most are unimpared while the rest, similar category of destructive artstyle. There are no sign of distress or struggle.

'Almost as if the people just vanish into thin air. Hmm...'

Kachak! sounds as it reverberate across the whole highway and beyond.

Teddiore pauses at his action of opening the tin of can. He tilts his head and listens to any returning calls. A few heartbeats later he finds none again.

Maybe he needs to make louder noises or move to a different location via the cause of that smoke? It would be easier for him if whatever the cause come to him instead. Saves him a trip and time. But for now, he opts to wait. It should not be long.

Triumph settles in as a flavourful soup graces him. He rolls the mouthful between his tongue, relishing the unique yet pleasant seasoning the meat coated in. Briefly he wonders what kind of meat this is but discards it as quick as that though appears.

It actually taste very good. In no time he finishes eleven more cans, offers a piece of hotdog to the sulking turtle and of course, listens to any possibility of hostile contacts.

It was on his thirteenth can when it happens. The sudden heaviness in the air.